What a fascinating concept.
The stuff God does to get my attention never fails to surprise me. And I’ve learnt not to ignore His voice.
Nothing disastrous like a tree falling on my head would happen if I ignored The Voice — I hope.
But a nasty niggling little bug would stir in my subconscious. And keep wiggling until it reached my conscious mind.
Once there, it would not crawl, scuttle, or flitter away until I engaged fully with why it was there. And realized:
Ah yes, God is at it again.
I’m slowly finding my way since finishing my seven-week study of Ignatian Spirituality — finding guidance in unexpected places.
I discovered a Three-Minute Daily Retreat that I love. It comes as an e-mail. That means I can read it at any time of the day. Whenever I feel the need. Or even if I don’t!
My writing has floundered. I find the spark has gone out. I limit my “output” to the odd article when I feel I have something worthwhile to share.
Who am I, after all, to impose my puny efforts on a tired readership? Another article on faith in an ocean of worthwhile articles on faith… Better written. Better expressed. Just — better.
Yet, this is all I have. A not-too-shabby talent for writing.
A gift from God.
I can’t travel to foreign countries as a missionary. Heaven forbid! What a liability I would be at my age.
I’m too timid — yes, I am, in that respect — to knock on doors. Or stand on street corners and engage strangers in a debate on my faith.
I already do the unseen and unsung bits of charity.
But what can I do with what I have?
That little bug reached my conscious mind this morning as I rested with the Three-Minute Retreat.
“What keeps me from trusting myself as an instrument of God’s voice?”
The writer then answers the question with this prayer:
“Oh God, my Divine Guide, sometimes I forget you are right here, now. I forget that you have graced me with your holy insight, if I but open myself to its possibility and say yes. I say yes now.”
3-Minute Retreat, Loyola Press
I look at the notes scattered across my desk — each one an idea for an article. I look at the desktop on my computer. Last count: sixteen half-written articles.
Some better; some worse.
Some will never reach an editor’s desk. Not good enough. Too private.
Some will never get finished. The initial spark has gone.
My friend, Janis Cox, phrased it perfectly:
“Nothing was connecting. Nothing alive. A touch of spark a few times. Then whoosh, it went out.”
I cannot use the time card as an excuse. I have the same 24 hours as everyone else. I cannot use the age card. There’s Grandma Moses who started painting at 78, and then there’s the other Moses who was called at age 80. I’m somewhere between.
I’m not comparing myself to these illustrious examples, merely explaining that age should never be an issue.
I’m in good health. I’m blessed beyond expectations. So, why am I not writing?
I didn’t like the conclusion I reached one little bit.
I put a lot of time, research, thought, and effort into my articles. And the engagement and reading that follow are lackluster, at best.
So, why do I bother? Does human appreciation mean that much to me?
And what does that say about me?
I’ve decided to write as if I’m writing for my God. And may the seeds scatter and fall where they will. I know one thing for sure:
He sees my efforts.
“ Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop — a hundred, sixty, or thirty times what was sown.” (Matthew 13:8, NIV)