I ask lots of questions. My parents, friends and college professors would all agree. I guess it’s the writer in me, always concocting a story. It comes as no surprise that I am particularly good with the assignment of interviewing someone for a story. I’ve found a little niche – one in which I am paid to ask questions, to get all the details in order to write a good story.
It’s been ages since I’ve written in this space. It’s exactly what I’ve been longing to do, and exactly what I’ve been resisting for several months.
I once resolved to be encouraging and life- giving in all that I say on the inter-web. Sometimes this decision is downright impossible. I can’t measure up to my own standards so I simply quit. It’s almost predictable – I stop writing and as sure as the sun shines I’m dealing with disappointment and discouragement.
Most recently it was the disappointment of a physical accident right in the middle of the holidays. A broken hand (well, officially “finger”, but my whole hand was in pain, & disabled) and my favorite activities all but entirely halted.
Typing was difficult, and my emotions wavered from Jekyll to Hyde. One day I was marveling at the things the Lord was showing me during this time, and the next day I was so angry that my husband didn’t do laundry the way I wanted him to. My days were filled with pain meds, painful therapy, and the presence of a metal rod in my hand, accompanying my roles as mommy, wife, and household manager. Somehow in the midst of all this I realized how much of life really is a question.
How many freak accidents can a mommy have in six months?
Will I ever play piano again?
Will the things I pray for daily ever happen?
Are the dreams in my heart from God?
Dear Jesus, Have you forgotten what you said? Where is God?
Does he hear me?
Is he really good?
Does he really love me?
And the more productive questions:
What do you want to teach me God?
What are you doing with me?
What are we working on now?
Sometimes the act of voicing the questions lessens the hold they can have over me. They aren’t as powerful and haunting. I simply say “Here is my question, God – I abandon it to you, I’m so tired of asking…”
Somewhere in one of these dark moments – with only my left hand to write – I sketched a question mark and an exclamation point and imagined my BIG HUGE questions and then my BIG HUGE answers coming one day with an exclamation.
So here it is: my attempt to jump off the train of resistance and get back into writing. I don’t have a perfect ending with a nice spiritual lesson. And. it’s. OK.
Whatever coaxes us out of hiding, to write, record, and express, is a revolutionary act. It says that we believe our lives count. Our lives do count. – Sark
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