I like to think of myself, in terms of my writing, as a pig. (No doubt I have plenty of critics who would agree.) What I mean is this.
A pig takes in copious amounts of stuff, some of it fairly expensive and fine, like pig feed, much of it cheap and base, like scraps from the family table.
In God’s good providence, the pig then turns that stuff into something profoundly treasured and dear—bacon. But it takes more than just the consuming to get that done. The pig has to die. In like manner I consume copious amounts of stuff.
I read fancy books written by theological giants, and I read blog posts and magazine articles by acerbic wits. But I also take in my surroundings and my circumstance.
I am always watching or reading (consuming) or mulling (digesting) or bleeding (giving up the bacon.)
Read the rest here.