Recently a friend, also a writer, emailed some very flattering words about my writing. I’ll admit it; I soaked in it and re-read it several times. I am still a bit codependent that way.
Her note caused me to go back and read some of my own writings, wondering what she might have especially liked. As I did, I ran across a couple of poems, and then, my Thirty Days of Thanksgiving, written just this last November. I thought, that was GOOD.
That day, I was feeling especially flat and uninspired, but as I read, I could objectively see that some of those musings were quite good. Objectively good. It was then I came to understand a value in writing even when we do not feel as though it matters. I was encouraged and I needed to be. Even when what we write does not seem to matter, even when we are not writing to compete or to hone our craft, we can go back and see the fingerprints of God on the hours of our lives.
This is nothing new, of course. We all know keeping a journal is valuable in our walk with God.
All that to say, just do it. Whatever it is that God gave you to do, do it, even when you do not believe what you do is that worthwhile, or that you are very good at it, do it. If you are a writer, write some tired old lady and tell her you admire something about her, as my friend wrote me.
I have one friend who loves to bake. Every week she bakes friendship bread and other delicious confections for her church.
Another friend loves being involved in feeding the homeless, and so she arranged for her life skills class to make sandwiches for our church’s turn at the Salvation Army center.
Himself, my husband of 53 years, celebrates life, creation and interesting people in his photography. There are photos in his archives that he did not enter in any competition, but when he looks back at them, he sees something really good and special that he didn’t see when he first worked on them.
Keep a record of it—a journal or a diary, so that in a month or two, when you have to look up to see the bottom, you can go back and see He was there, is there, all the time.
Probably my Calvinistic grave clothes try to keep me from enjoying my own work, which is stupid. Nobody knows better than I do that without the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, I have nothing. Surely glorifying God includes admiring the beauty He creates out of ashes.
That morning I wrote in my journal, “without Jesus I’m out on a turbulent sea in a leaky canoe, but in Him, I’m like a tree planted by the water; I shall not be moved.” Truth, that!