The number of notebook pages I’ve filled in the year since I “stopped writing.” I’ve also filled two mid-sized storage bins with napkins, flyers, even airline tickets that have been marked with line after line of black ink. When friends would ask me, “Are you writing?” my negative answers would conjure up feelings of guilt and anger. Guilt for my lack of devotion to the craft I passionately devoted myself to for so long and anger toward myself for feeling guilty. I’d mumble, “Of course not. I am not a writer.” Then I’d furiously scribble a few sentences on the back of a receipt from my purse about peer pressure, abandoned goals and choices.
In October, I began admitting that I felt the urge to write. Today, I’m admitting that the urge never left me. It’s a passion that I can’t seem to shake, though not for my own foolish lack of trying.
Dreams are wonderful and weighty. If I profess to small measure of gifting, then I am culpable for what becomes of that gift. If I possess a small measure of talent, then I am burdened with the task of developing the skills to showcase that talent. I bear the responsibility of using my gift, my talent, for the glory of God and the blessing of others.
Dreams can also be terrifying. Feeling desire leaves my heart open to possible disappointment. Pursuing my desires definitely brings the possibility of failure. What I’ve discovered in the last year is that walking away brings the same sense of heartache and shame. I thought I was protecting myself but I was just as disappointed and I certainly felt like a failure.
With much trembling, I’m taking a risk today. I’m embracing a skill that is far from perfect, exercising a talent that is rusty from lack of use. I’m chasing a dream that has been dormant for over 12 months. I’m choosing to walk in obedience as I sense the Holy Spirit leading me. I trust that His grace will sustain me as I reach out for the desire that He placed in my heart.
I am a writer.