The Scribe and the Storm: A Love Letter to the One Who Saved Me.

The Scribe and the Storm: A Love Letter to the One Who Saved Me

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I am not who the world said I would be. I am who the Creator reached for when everyone else turned away. In the hush between heartbreaks, when the noise of rejection became the score to my daily breath, the Creator sang over me with promises not yet fulfilled but they were written in the marrow of my spirit like a song only I could hear. When I stood in the ruins of what people had done to me what life had tried to convince me I was I did not fold, I looked up. And I whispered something small, something holy: “If you need me, I’m here. I accept your invitation.”

This was not a moment. This was a covenant. A silent yes that roared louder than any applause I’d never gotten from the world. And in return, He began restoring what the world and its imps tried to steal my dignity, my clarity, my fire, my soul’s voice. I’m reaping the harvest of a promise only the Creator could have made. Not a man’s word. Not a culture’s version of success. But His divine assurance that I was never forgotten, never cast aside in heaven’s books even if I was dismissed in man’s. And so I rejoice today not because life is perfect, but because my spirit is finally in alignment with the One who thought I was worth saving.

You came for me not as a king riding in thunder, but as a whisper in my silence. You looked at my dirt, my confusion, my misdirection and still, You said, “Greatness.” You cleaned me up with purpose. Not to polish me for display, but to free me to make me whole, to heal the fracture of my becoming, and to place a pen in my hand. You turned my pain into prophecy. My brokenness into books. My confusion into clarity. My silence into sacred scribbles.

You thought I was to die for and that revelation bends me into worship. Not just in song, but in sweat. Not just in praise, but in persistence. Not just in spirit, but in pen. You made me a scribe not for the approval of men, but as a servant of heaven’s language. I don’t care if my words never touch a bookstore shelf. I don’t care if no one reads what I write. Because heaven reads it. Because You gave me this pen. And until my last breath, I shall write.

This isn’t easy. This isn’t light. The weight of divine inspiration is no feather it is fire. When it hits, it scorches. It carves deep. It consumes hours like seconds and leaves me trembling from the intensity of hearing Your voice so near. Writing under the unction of Your Spirit is like working 78 hours straight with no rest yet it’s the only work that heals me as it breaks me. And I’d rather be tired in Your service than rested in this world’s applause.

Drench my heart. Soak it in the dew of Your mercy until all the bitterness has been diluted and all the scars start to shine like sacred ink. I am persuaded to love You not because I’m good, but because You were good to me when I had nothing to offer back. Your hand reached into the chaos of my mind, my past, my grief and pulled out a melody. I have been changed. Constrained. Compelled. Not by religion. Not by guilt. But by what You’ve done in my life. By every storm You steered me through. Every quiet midnight where You held my tears like treasure. Every fiery trial that didn’t consume me but refined me.

I cannot forget. I refuse to forget. The pain I endured was a furnace, yes but it was also a womb. You birthed me again through it. When people labeled me unworthy, when they stepped over me as if I were debris on their path to self-elevation you stayed. You believed in my gifts when no one else saw them. You strengthened my hand when my pen trembled. You tuned my ear to heaven’s rhythm. You reminded me: “This world may never value what I’ve placed inside you, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t priceless.”

I write now not for validation but for vengeance holy vengeance. Every word is a reclaiming. Every metaphor is me gathering what the enemy scattered. Every page is me announcing: “I am still here. I am still whole. I am still Yours.”

So let the world overlook me it only made me look up. Let them doubt me it only deepened my faith. Let the doors close it only made me walk through the ones You opened. I belong to no platform, no trend, no algorithm I belong to You. And because of that, I have already won.

To the One who saved me: I give You this pen, this praise, this poured-out soul. I give You this weary body and this eternal spirit. I give You the ink of my memories and the fire of my vision. Until I can write no more I write for You.