Over the past month, both my writing voice and my actual voice have fallen quiet, insecure and fragile. I am on a new journey. I am not sure exactly what it is or where it will take me. But, I sense that I am entering another place of waiting. And, from what I have learned before, the Lord will meet me there and show me where to go next. My job is to wait and pray with expectation; to rest and be silent – for I will not hear him if I am making or surrounding myself with a lot of noise.
I am reading through a book titled When the Heart Waits by Sue Monk Kidd (author of The Secret Life of Bees). Of all places, I found it on the free shelf at our local library. It was published in 1990, yet, despite being over twenty years old, her words are breathing comfort into my soul. I realize I am now on the same journey she describes – a mid-life journey seeking meaning and purpose.
I am entering mid-life. I don’t like it. I am definitely not happy about it. I don’t see myself as a soon-to-be-forty-year-old, yet here I am on the precipice of a new stage. What now? What am I doing with my life? Is this all that there is? These are the questions racing through my head, and they are the same ones Sue writes about.
She shares lessons learned along her journey – lessons of Waiting, Resting, Entering into the dark place. She describes an image of becoming a “cocoon” in order to allow the His Holy Spirit to transform her into her True Self – the self that Christ sees.
Her words are familiar to me and capture the experiences I have had and lessons I have learned. And, I ponder, who is teaching these lessons to the next generation of women?
In my recent silence, as I have been reading through this book, God is reminding me of His first calling on my life – to share my story – to share the lessons I have learned, the wisdom He bore in me during a period of waiting.
But…then, this is where I begin to struggle and shy away from doing just that. Who do I think I am? What could I possibly have to say that hasn’t already been said? Is it egotistical of me to think that my words are of any significance? Who am I serving – myself or God?
I look at the beautiful, uplifting blogs that are out there. They share ideas about parenting, cooking, marriage, and home-decorating. They are happy, colorful, and fun. I am intimidated by it all, and feel that I am just a thorn in everyone’s side reminding them of the darker side of life.
But, here is the honest truth: I wish I could write about things that make everyone feel good and perfect and put-together. I wish that were the voice I had been given. It is more acceptable to write about things that make us comfortable, that feed our egos and materialistic tendencies.
(I am not bashing those blogs, please don’t misunderstand me. I love looking at them and getting insights on great fashion, home decor, and cuisine. The blogs are beautiful and their writers talented.)
I also know this to be true: My words flow freely and easily onto the page when I share personal spiritual struggles and the parts of my life that rub raw against the truths of Scripture. Beneath the squeaky clean spiritual surface of me lies a dark underbelly that is fighting for a chance to breath and bear witness of Christ’s love.
My blog may not be the most popular. I may not generate thousands of followers or start a movement and “go viral”. And, I may never be able to afford, or decide to allocate, hundreds of dollars to develop a beautiful, new blog design.
I fight fear of rejection, fear of ridicule, fear of failure.
Yet, God has given me eyes that see the grief and suffering in this world; a mind that questions the status quo; a heart that aches to know more of Him; and a spirit that needs to rest so that He can fill me again.
I will write as I feel led, when words hang on my heart aching to be spoken, and try not to strive for popularity.