Creative Writing

Destination Path’s Creative Writing platform is a welcoming and purpose-driven space for authors, poets, and storytellers to express their faith through words. Whether you are publishing for the first time or have been writing for years, your story matters. Your words carry meaning, purpose, and power, and here, they are seen, valued, and shared with a supportive community.

I met Him at a young age. He exemplified magnificence, adorned with a tender smile that permeated every fiber of my being. His royal eyes mirrored the gentle gaze of doves. His mouth dripped sweet-smelling savors. There suspended in midair like a wingless eagle, He gazed, evaluating His own making. I squinted my eyes to grasp Him, sensing the warmth of His eyes, ever so attentive to me. He loves me. I saw it in His eyes. Even young, I had never experienced affection like that from anyone before. It was astonishing to feel significant, so mesmerizingly important. He bid me to come, pointing upward with his finger. Oh, how did I yearn to embark upon that journey, but simultaneously feeling the piercing sting of not measuring up, inadequate compared to the beauty that graced my wanting heart.

“May I change my clothes?” I asked. Smiling, His kind eyes said. “You are fine as you are.” I looked down at myself and then turned my attention back to Him. I could not compare. I raised my finger and stated, “Hold on, I’ll go change my clothes.” I turned away and sensed His love go silent glanced back; He was not there. The beautiful and magnificently illuminated face that loved me like no one else had vanished. My ravished heart stood fixed, waiting for Him to reappear. Day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, and year after year, the regret and longing persisted, never ceasing. The anguish of rejection made me ill, lamenting my longing for Him and regretting my fixed mind. I went on about my business, searching for meaning in the absence of my beloved. I looked for Him everywhere and in everyone, expecting Him to reveal Himself in the blueprints of His own designs. He never materialized.

I found solace near His blueprints; the patterns crafted by His own hands. I cherished them as if they were gold. I protected them as if they were my own. I wanted so much to please Him, to show Him that I accept myself as His divine creation and would never again turn to change my clothes. Still, a harsh quite persisted. I heard no voice, as before. As I busied myself only to realize that each effort went unnoticed, every intention misunderstood. Yet like a hungry farmer, I made sure He was aware of the depth of my care.

The teary nights escaped me at the speed of time. I could not shake the persistent yearning and discovered no counterpart in love. Still, I went about my business, searching for Him in His blueprints.

I focused too much on His blueprints to get a glimpse of His mouth, dripping that sweet-smelling savor. Until I witnessed the blueprints masquerading as Him, crafting imitations of things to evoke His godlike control. Yet nothing compared to that moment, the day I fell in love. His blueprints were mere silhouettes, no kingly eyes to resemble the eyes of doves. The deeper I delved into the shadows of blueprints, the stronger my yearning became. The more I realized their deliberate transgressions, the more sad songs I sang. And the more I listened to their subjective details, the more I regretted thinking on my own and not seeing myself in His perfect motif.

As I dwelled in the shadows with the blueprints, the transgressing watchmen caught me and stripped my body bare. They possessed not a shred of love to give me and envied my affections focused elsewhere. Never did I turn to their artificial screaming to tame my worship to them. I sought only to express my contrition to the perfect One I loved. The blueprints never understood my yearning or how I longed for His return—to come back to His garden, the garden where we met. I want to hear Him say, “Come, my beloved, let us go. Stroll with me through the fields and ride the ambiance that covers my playing sphere!” Then, I wished I had said yes, but now I beg His pardon. I never shall forget a love so profound, the day when my heart surrendered—the day I fell in love.

Standing on a grey metal fold-up chair, she faced the congregation known as the Pentecostal Churches of the Apostolic Faith. The gathering comprised more than a thousand people assembled from various states. She was so tiny, at eight years old. The little Levite identified with the culture until she opened her mouth. At that moment, her priestly heritage called out to us, inviting us to supper with the Master. There, she called with her deep adult voice and long ponytail.

They called her the Little Mahaila. She experienced an adrenaline rush when she sang, yet she grew wiser than her entertainer. She learned to be more than her voice. Through prayer and suffering, she realized who she was when ‘the Mahaila’ disappeared, and her inner self took form. In her quest for understanding, she developed her Levitan vocals, ushering everyone into their inner courtyard, singing, “Holy, Holy is He who lives within, who gives us our breath and grants us our being.”

She grew to understand that the call was not in the sound. It began in the Word. She spoke, performed, and danced the Word, learning its many forms. It was the Word in the beginning; she cried. The Word was made flesh, she understood, and it dwells among us, penetrating the core of our very soul, she proclaimed.

She became frustrated when she saw countless souls ensnared in a state of deceitfulness and devoid of the Word. So, she was heard in the streets, in their homes, and on their jobs, privately, one by one, reminding her brothers and her sister of who they were and who they could be, tapping a message at the door of their souls that from the very beginning, the Word was God. She willed her brothers and sisters to believe by using her words to make them visualize and see that it was not by her might but by God’s might that she had her being.

With her newfound wisdom, she reached out and grasped Him; tears welling up in her eyes and clenched teeth, she screamed, “I may not have conquered the prince of the air, the destroyer of my flesh, but I have met the Master, the deliverer of my soul.” She looked back and told them once, twice, and again, “Yeah, thou I’ve walked through the valley of the shadow of death,”… I am calm. She told them, her brothers and sisters, “Greater things will you do. Take what I have given you, rejoicing! When you feel God’s presence, know this: I am singing again in the courtyard because now, I am His, and He is mine.”