The Gift of Writing

It's been little more than a year since I began my public and personal blog "Deeply Rooted". It began, flourished, and then seemed to peter out. The little vine, I believe, was here for a time and those little curling shoots were meant to lead me to the next phase of my life.

I wanted so desperately to impact the world in which I lived -this little sphere of community, this sliver of pie - how could I do good in His name? So I began to blog. I felt it was where God led me. So I began writing for the sake of other's souls. I wrote to teach, to encourage, to do anything I could that was positive. But it all changed one night when God pressed even harder on my heart and I knew the next step He intended me to take was to write about the miscarriages. That night I was literally shaking in dread. How could I write about the pain and hatred I had felt and the babies that had been lost? How was I to write with reason about something so unreasonable? And how could I write about my heart during the losses if I did not start with the heart that came before the babies, the heart of self-righteousness?

But I began. I took the long journey in bite-fulls and with each bite God opened my eyes more and more to show me the truth that was hidden behind the mess. Each time I sat to write I saw my life in little pictures, little movie scenes, in which God was always present, always loving, always after this heart of self-righteousness. I saw how He loved me and my heart began to soften and finally I rejoiced in this love story He saw worthy to give me. It was something I only saw when I wrote.

And as I wrote about my wrestling match with God several friends open up about their personal struggles with God - about depression and anxiety and wanderings. As they shared, my little bubble of comfort was popped and I recoiled. Life was so painful! Life was so heavy. I started pinning their names on a board and would pray for them daily. And yet their names grew. And so did the burden upon my heart.

It wasn't long after this that the women's ministry director of our church, who I had been corresponding with since the inception of the blogging idea, approached me and asked me to facilitate our women's ministry blog. I took on the ministry after much prayer and nail biting and shaking with fear. And as I took hold of the blog I believe God intended for me to lead, the Deeply Rooted inspiration stopped.

In the beginning I wrote to teach. I wrote to encourage. I wrote to bless. Because the "gift of writing" must be a gift that I was to give to others, right? And, oh, how I struggled! What in the world was I to teach others when I myself knew so little? How was I to gift others with writing when I was not a writer? I tried, I forced, I complained, I ran, I tried again.

When I was a young girl, in the infancy of Belief, I learned that my name, a derivative of John, meant "God is gracious". In all sincerity I thought it meant God was gracious to give me to the World. I could twirl around with arms flung up to the heavens and scream, "You're welcome, World! I am here!" It wasn't until I began to experience real life that I learn the humbling truth... God was gracious to me. He was here to benefit me and the outpouring of that relationship would then benefit others. I had my intentions backwards.

So it was with my writing. I have learned, a midst the great complaining down on my part, that the "gift of writing" all packaged up in box and ribbon, was a gift given to me. The gift is not in my eloquence or great knowledge or incredible insight. The "gift of writing" was a gift for me to unwrap. As a young girl with arms outstretched in waiting to bless others I missed the fact that God wanted to also bless me. Now, as a seriously-struggling writer, I strove to bless others in my own strength instead of allowing God to bless me with the gift of Himself as He and I wrote together.

Looking back I see that "Deeply Rooted" was a transition, a vine to get me from one place to another. And it was through that blog, as God was blessing me with Himself, that He brought me into my ministry: the ministry of the written word.

So now I write. I am learning to call myself a "writer", because that's how I process life. I see life differently when I write. It is while I write about pain that God adds in words of great joy. It is while I write about the mystery of motherhood that God adds in words of thankfulness and hope. It is how He opens my eyes to see the truth.

I do not call myself a "writer" because I am talented or fabulous with words. I call myself a "writer" because it is where I meet with God and receive hope and relief.

It is a place of perpetual birthday and faithfulness. It is a place of Himself this "gift of writing". God is indeed gracious. He is gracious to me.