๐ฆ๐๐ฅ๐๐ฃ๐ง๐ข๐ฅ๐๐
You raise your head and are immediately hit with an intense slice of light. Momentarily disoriented, you squint your eyes and wonder how you got to this place filled with brilliance so high your eyes hurt. On the walls, there are columns of golden engravings that reflect the light that seems to emanate from all directions.
On the table before you is a blank sheet of paper that is rimmed on all sides with intricate golden patterns.
Your fingers are wrapped around an elegant pen unlike any you’ve ever seen. The pen-case is made of translucent gold and the ink seems to be reddish… blood?
When you scan through the expanse of the room again, you realize where the soft sounds serenading your eardrums come from.
At the corners of the room are three other people seated on cushioned chairs, writing fast. They don’t notice you as they continue feverishly writing. Their scribblings are what make the soft musical sound.
Behind each person are towering beings of light. Kitted as sentinels, they watch keenly. Occasionally, the lighted beingsโangels, you realizeโwhisper into the ears of their charges.
Stunned by the vista, you blink repeatedly and wonder if you are dreaming.
“Yes, you are,” a deep sonorous voice echoes behind you. “Welcome to Scriptoria, a section of the Heavenly Library reserved for the few chosen from every race and eras.”
You turn and look up to catch a glimpse of the blazing face of the angel behind you. His lithe frame radiates wisdom and strength.
“I’m a Scriptus, a class of angel charged with recording events in the heavenly annals or assigned a human scribe to assist,” he supplies, reading your confusion. “Muriel, at your service.” He gives you a quick bow.
Your mouth hangs open and you blink repeatedly, stunned. “But… What am I doing here? I’m no scribe.”
Muriel smiles. “You are. According to what has been written of you in the volume of books. And now is the set time for you to take up that mantle because the horde of hell are also unleashing their poisonous liars into the world to corrupt men through words.”
Your head spins and you remember all your failures. Yes, you dabble in writing, once in a while. But you don’t do it with as much enthusiasm as you know Muriel must think you should have.
Not after the time a peer mocked a poem you poured your soul into. Not after all your futile attempts at attracting a steady audience to your Christian poetry blog. Not now, when writer’s block has finally frozen your brain.
“I’m not a good writer. I’m not qualified. God can pick someone else. Not me,” you mutter.
“That is why He chose you, weak and feeble, that He might display His strength. Creation is waiting for you. Your generation, your territory is waiting because through the words you’ll publish, they be delivered from captivity,” Muriel continues earnestly.
“You won’t do this alone,” he continues. “Ruach Hakodesh will come upon you as you write and those words will become spirit and life.”
You nod solemnly, understanding the gravity of the assignment you’ve been tasked with. Hope swells in you. You know things will never remain the same from now. You are a little scared still. But your heart makes it’s resolution to trust Abba who has granted you the rare privilege of this revelation.
You turn to the table and take up the pen, poised to write again.
As the inkโwhich you now realise is the Lamb’s bloodโpours out to form the first letter, a surge of power explodes out of the tip. You bask in it.
