A year ago I hit publish and buried my head in Matt’s chest. I just bet my heart in public, now I have to win.
Now I’m a spacy writer trying to be a big shot. I have to prove I’m not selfishly blabbering.
Everyone told me to write like I dreamed.
“Stop studying, cut out the noise, and just do it,” Dad said again and again.
But if I started I had to finish.
So I made up righteous excuses. It’s selfish to pursue a hobby instead of helping people. It’s arrogant to think I can add anything to a bajillion written words. It’s holier to suffer doing what’s right.
“I made you to write, Mary,” God kept saying.
But I didn’t believe God. I kept trying to be an academic, a servant, a missionary.
“God, it can’t be right to do something I love so much. I want to serve you. I’m afraid.”
My terror confirmed I had to write. If I stayed, I could succeed by myself. If I exposed myself by writing, God would have to be my astronaut suit or I’d die in outer space.
“That’s exactly where I want you, Mary.”
“Okay, God. I can be disciplined. I can post every Thursday. But I can’t succeed.”
A year of weekly stories, scrapping, rewriting, re-leaving the space station feeling suitless. As I drafted, tears filled my eyes that don’t cry. My heart exploded with amazement at God.
He smiles when I’m happy. He delights in me.
I transcribed God’s glory in the everyday and found a million more reasons to worship. The daily gifts, the beauty, the people who love him.
I’ve heard people say they were inspired to worship God, and my heart leapt. That’s why I write.
My worry about success is silly. My talent is just as inconsequential as the Israelites muscles were in conquering the Promised Land. God does everything. I just have to keep walking around Jericho, keep taking the crazy steps to outer space.
I’ve succeeded if my writing inspires worship. But that’s easy because there are always reasons to worship God.