“Your writing seems kinda off lately,” my mom said. “It’s just not the quality I’m used to from you.”
“I know. I’ve been tired, busy, and foggy-headed.” What’s wrong with me? I need to sleep more or discipline myself better. I have to start saying no to working on the house when I should be writing. I’ll drink less coffee, eat healthier.
I spend hours rearranging a short post. My gut sinks, but my brain’s silent.
Driving to Michigan with my sisters, I complain I’m sleep deprived, my head feels squeezed by forceps, and my ears are clogging.
Back home, I’ll get back on a sleep schedule. Routine will boost my productivity. But I’m so tired the irritation keeps me awake.
5:00 a.m. I read my Bible.
“Jesus, please give me a clear head today. Give me your words to write.”
The blank page glares above the keyboard. Will the fog clear?
15 minutes later the page is full. That draft went down like ice cream. I could write another.
“You don’t have, because you don’t ask,” God said.
He’s right. I complained for weeks, but I never asked.
I whined. I told my sisters, my mom, and my husband. I tried to fix it, but I never asked Jesus.
It’s like when I complained to everyone in sight about the light company shipping me 24 incorrect bulbs, twice.
The company didn’t even know about the problem until I stopped complaining and called customer service.
“But you hear my complaints, God.”
“Of course I do. But you’d credit your sleep discipline and spiritual conversations instead of me.”
Wow. I do. I take credit for fixing things all the time. I don’t ask until it’s the last option left.
“I’m sorry, God, for talking about you while you’re in the room but not talking to you. Teach me to ask first.”