Writing is still a chore for me, which is sad. It turns out that writing without inspiration is work, and I’ve never held such a relationship with the pen. It’s difficult to adjust to.
I find that my sentences are shorter, my thoughts fewer, my vocabulary sparse. My attention span, also, is not as lengthy as it once was. All this, of course, I blame on child-rearing.
I hold the belief that childhood is a precious, fleeting time and should be enjoyed to its fullest. Christ told us that being childlike is essential for entering the Kingdom, and so I want to watch my little people with new eyes, learning from their point-of-view. I want to see them run through the fountain with their clothes on, come home with mud caked on their face, beam with pride at their elementary art work.
I also hold the belief that the Spirit bestows us with gifts for the using. I want to take my talent and risk it and see it multiply. I have faith that I will experience the depths of God only when I am living out of how I have been made, happy to be the foot or the knee or the eye in the body, at peace with what He’s given me. I believe He has made me to write, and so I desperately want to do so.
I have been wondering at how these two beliefs can coexist. I have been studying the threads and knots of the tapestry from the backside, filled with curiosity (and also some anxiety, really) about the picture these things are forming. What are you doing, God? It feels impossible to care for my children as I am convicted to do, without squandering that talent, given by the Master for safekeeping and flourishing. It is hard for me to not wish this season to come and go quickly. Nipping at the heels of that selfish thought is the spirit-certainty that I will miss this time of my life with longing when it is over, like no other that preceded or will follow it. I can taste it’s holiness.
Its my thought that I should offer my confusion to God, as sacrifice. My life, my heart, my body, my pen — my spiritual service of worship. He wants it, I can tell. He wants me to wonder and to ask, but has never promised His answers to be a prerequisite for peace.
I don’t want to waste His gifts. This, I am not confused about.