And I never, ever, let a soul look at those stories. I started this blog and felt so dumb and embarrassed I did not tell anyone. I link my posts with facebook sometimes, then wished I did not, then go slinking back again, like an addict keeps going back to get her hit.
I don’t want others to know. I see the world different, I feel things differently, and then for some insane reason write about it! And I go slinking back, not out of self-destructive vice, but by a compulsion, that this is for someone else’s good. Not necessarily mine.
It is the calling of a writer.
We have to completely abort this beast of a lie that a writer is someone who is paid for their craft. There must be contracts and money involved. “Don’t you know little one” I hear The Savior say “that is how this broken, sin-scarred world operates”?
If you are called to do anything, anything that sets you apart, especially if it is creative, hard to explain, it simply is.
DNA coursing through you.
Tuesday afternoon. It was dark and raining. But it was the lovely type. The house was spotless, my soy candle filled the room with a delicate fragrance. Yet I could not find peace. Could not even sit still. As nervous as a cat when she knows a bath is coming, I squirmed and circled. I did not know what was wrong and why I was feeling this…this something I could not even name.
I simply wrote. A story. Not a new one, by any means. In fact, I bet it is tucked hidden on your table or on your shelf right now in your house.
It was The Gospel of John chapter 6. And I had to write it out in a story. I have never done that. It was really weird. But wait! It gets much worse.
Afterwards, laying my pen down, feeling exhausted but relieved, I got that little poke in my conscience. It said: “Unlike all your other stories you write. Not personal stories but creative ones, it is not to lay buried. It is not to go on your blog even:
Type it out.
Read it to a whole room full of people at the Bible study you attend on Tuesday’s night.
I wanted to laugh, then throw up, then get drunk.
That is not me!
But somehow, I did.
It is my calling.
Lots of days I wish it were not.
“Why can’t I be normal Lord!” is a repeated lament.
One thing, and one thing alone, gave me the courage to be ridiculously brave and foolish:
It is not about you. It is about Me.
Yours truly, Jesus
But it is my calling.
Like it or not
Take it or leave it.
Embrace this part of you, by emptying you.
And then see how He surprises you in how He fills you up.