I know my harbor full well. I call it my back-corner blog, where every inch of my heart’s laid vulnerable and bare, yet only a select few know about it. Transparency’s easy when I’ve handpicked the audience, when my full name and face are kept secret. The harbor’s quaint and cozy. I can hardly hear the Liar there–he hopes I stay put.

When a writer and mama friend of mine asked to hear my big God dream—so big only God could do it—it came out easy. I want to be a writer. A writer of words that strike chords and stay remembered, words that creatives like me write down all pretty. A writer who uses the power of words for good, to color dreams and cast vision and spur on and celebrate. A writer that tells what Jesus teaches and what life with Him lets me see. I’ve always known I’m made for it—even she said so.

My heart was bound and bridled by every flavor of fear until this back-corner blog gave me space to unravel. The ones that kept up knew my moves were little but called it Layne brave. Every writer’s got to start somewhere. Two years in, I see He’s been readying me—to set sail, to uproot, to upgrade to a big girl blog. Her words are gold to me. She tells me when I write, I teach. That maybe this space can be my new teaching domain—not corralled between four classroom walls, or across tables over coffee, or always in a living room of high school girls. My own little domain to write and ramble, and teach whoever tags along about my Jesus. She got me thinking, she got me dreaming. And then she called out the Liar—said those are old fears—and called me out of hiding. I’m not made for still waters or to stay tied tight at harbor.

So I’m off! I set sail, wobbly because my fears stack a mile higher than my equipment. To plaster my face and full name loud atop the most precious offering I’ve got? To face mystery waters and audience head on, all messy and untied and undone? It’s dangerous. But it’s what ships are for. What’s more dangerous than an unbridaled ocean? The One who tames it. He’s fine-tuning my craft, steering me safe, stopping for storytime so I don’t forget Who this is about.

I pray this is always about my Jesus. That this would not be about me: the advancement of my renown, my name, selfish ambition, or Layne glory—like the old days, the ones I prefer left in the rearview. But that here, I’d fiercely proclaim His story for His glory. That my words wouldn’t alter this gospel, lessen its allure, overcomplicate or sugarcoat it. That this would run not on applause or attention, but on the purest of wonder. That this wouldn’t dare become a façade of pretty words if my insides are tangled or twisted or run dry. That my mess would be relevant to one, two, or a hundred somebodies. That this would multiply my joy until it’s holy and uncontainable. That He’d stretch what’s brave in me to broader dimensions. That my caliber of vulnerability doesn’t diminish. That I’d reject the Liar’s critiques and hear Truth-whispers scream louder. That when expectations squeeze tight and comparison corners, I don’t let my enemy steer me to dry ground. And that wherever this takes me as a learner, a writer, a teacher, a disciple-maker, a daughter, I’d claim only what He says is true of me: that I’m beloved, that I’ve done well, that what I hand Him will always be enough.

I’ll surely fight and rewrite and erase and retreat–and You know I’ll be my own worst critic. At times I’ll be faithless or faith-light and I know You’ll stay faithful. Steer me, steady me until I’m safe at Home. What I’ve got is Yours, J!