by Eva Marie Everson
Lately I’ve struggled with something personal. A thought, really. One that the enemy brought up, I know, to confuse and confound me … to slide a tentacle up and around my throat ever-so-gently … almost unnoticeably … until time to squeeze.
And the squeezing has caused me to question. To wonder. To try to figure out, on my own, whether or not I am who I say I am, namely a writer. More directly, a Christian writer. Or, a writer who is a Christian.
