confession time
A look around my house would give you a hint to a flaw of mine that isn’t really a big secret. I love creative projects, the adrenaline, the challenge, the starting out… but I often stop short of the finish line. Way short.
On the back patio, several unfinished chairs and a few more in the garage.
In our bedroom, a tub of old sheets, some balled up in strips, some still whole, all rag rugs waiting to be woven together.
On the top of my desk, an old bucket we salvaged which I plan to paint white and fill with hydrangeas.
On my laptop? A dozen blog posts and chapters, started, raw, unedited, unready, unfinished.
Most of these creative projects are actually symptoms of my anxiety about writing and about money.
All are deep down a lack of trust. I don’t trust myself to be a “real writer” and I don’t trust God’s current provision to sustain us.
Deep down I feel as though I can never really pull off the writer gig, never really make it a career, that “they’re all gonna laugh at you (me).”
So I refinish chairs and sell them online, I make rag rugs and sell them online, I make kids hats and sell them online because… It’s easier than writing, than finishing those chapters and being brave with this writing, these words, this story.
Lately I’ve heard God whisper, will you trust in my call on your life? Will you do less, better?
Last night Kel actually asked me: “Will you believe that for now, my income is enough for both our passions?”
And so over the week I’ve asked for help in saying no, in finding the strenght to craft more words and fewer rugs.
In taking this writer thing and believing in it, in myself.
Do you find yourself running from your true call, retreating from the harder race to stroll so often on the easier path?
Me too.
Let’s run that mother of a race together. Shall we?