It’s late. The house is quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator and the soft ticking of the clock that reminds you how little time you actually have. The day’s work is done, or at least done enough… and here you are again, laptop open, cursor blinking like a heartbeat in the dark.
This is the margin.
Not the wide, white space at the edge of the page, but the sliver of life that’s left after the obligations are met and the noise dies down. It’s where many of us who create do our work: not from mountaintop retreats or sunlit studios, but from kitchen tables, back patios, and spare moments between everything else.
The world tends to glorify “balance,” but most of us who write, build, and dream know balance is a myth. Real life isn’t neatly divided into equal slices: it’s a shifting, unpredictable rhythm. The bills don’t care that you’re chasing inspiration. The inbox doesn’t respect your muse. And yet, somehow, we find ourselves drawn to the page anyway.
Maybe that’s the point.
When you write in the margins, you’re not chasing perfection… you’re practicing faith. You’re saying, “God, I don’t have much to offer tonight. But here’s what I have.” And time after time, He multiplies it. A few paragraphs scribbled in exhaustion become the seed of something that grows. A single phrase whispered into a journal becomes the line that changes someone’s heart later on.
Writing (or any other creative act, really) isn’t a luxury for those with free time. It’s a form of obedience. It’s the acknowledgment that what’s stirring inside you was placed there for a reason, and that reason doesn’t disappear when life gets full.
I’ve learned that creativity rarely waits for convenience. It asks for presence. Some nights, presence looks like 2 a.m. editing sessions. Other days, it looks like jotting a line on your phone during a staff meeting break or praying through a story idea on your morning commute. There’s holiness in that small persistence… in showing up when it would be easier not to.
The margins may never feel like enough, but they’re often exactly where God does His best work. Scripture is full of people who did world-changing things in borrowed spaces: fishermen on a shoreline, prophets in caves, apostles writing letters from prison cells. Maybe you’re not working with abundance right now, but you are working with purpose.
When I started ColePress, I thought I needed more time: time to build, time to write, time to think. What I’ve discovered is that the margins themselves are the proving ground. They reveal whether we’re waiting for ideal circumstances or trusting that the call is already here, quietly insistent, in the corners of our lives.
So, to the writer who’s editing between bedtime stories and emails: keep going. To the artist who sketches during lunch breaks, the poet who types on a cracked phone screen, the dreamer who can’t quite find a free weekend: keep showing up.
The margins may be small, but they’re sacred.
And one day, you’ll look back and realize the margins weren’t just where you fit your calling in.
They were where your calling grew.
Christopher L. Cole is the founder and CEO of ColePress LLC. He is also an elder at Plum Creek Christian Church. His writing explores the intersection of faith, humanity, and creativity.
