Death by Living: Life Is Meant to Be Spent

by N.D. Wilson

we are both tiny and massive. We are nothing more than molded clay given breath, but we are nothing less than divine self-portraits, huffing and puffing along mountain ranges of epic narrative arcs prepared for us by the Infinite Word Himself.

We are narrative creatures, and we need narrative nourishment—narrative catechisms.

Stories are the closest our own words can ever come to being made flesh—gifts unwrapped in the imagination.

Life is a story. Why do we die? Because we live. Why do we live? Because our Maker opened His mouth and began to tell a story.

When a drunk crushes some family, some mother, some friend; when a story ends, then we wake up. Then we turn to God with confused expressions, wanting to know why He was sleeping in the boat. He brought us here from nothing; is He ever allowed to take us to an exit? His own Son died young; do you think He doesn’t understand? Moses didn’t see the Promised Land. Samson died blind in the rubble. Stephen beneath stones. Paul without a head. Peter upside down. In a bed or on the battlefield or on asphalt in shattered glass beneath a flashing light, we are God’s stories to end. How many drunks has He spared you from? Thank Him before you ask to be spared from another. How many breaths have you drawn? How many winter winds have tightened your skin? How many Christmases have you seen? How many times has the sky swirled glory above your head like a benediction? See it. Hear Him. Thank Him. Ask for more.