Rocks.Roots.Wings.

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Writers like a good metaphor.

Rocks.

Roots.

Wings.

All metaphors used by my favorite storyteller — Jesus.

He was a master of a device known as “sight to insight”. He touched the ordinary things in life and transformed them into golden truths with such lasting power that their permanence still holds today: the prodigal son, the good soil, the mustard seed.

Rocks. Roots. Wings. Metaphors from the Mountain Sermon — the most radical, revolutionary teaching ever to hit humanity.

Jesus is  my hero. And I’m not speaking only in metaphor. He’s my savior. Hero.

Rocks.

I am a miner when I write. With words and ideas, style and convention, I dig for that golden vein, that line of truth that can be almost imperceptible in the black shale. I chip away.

Roots.

I am a tree growing roots near a brook, seeking support, nourishment, living water.

Wings.

I am trying my wings. Forty years old and freshly fledged from the nest. So I was late in breaking the shell, the last of the clutch to take flight. From my spot in the nest I see only blue sky. And it’s invisible wind is calling my name: Alyssa Santos.

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