I’ve thought about quitting three dozen times. And that’s a conservative count. The funny thing is, I don’t consider myself a quitter. I’m a perfectionist by nature, a recovering one by grace, so it entirely contradicts my personality to leave what I start unfinished.
When I first heard God’s call to write, it sounded … interesting. I’ve always loved words, whether it be placing them on a page or speaking them into a room full of people. And this call to write came at a turning point in my life. Opportunity intersected with the voice of God and demanded action.
And yet for months, I shrugged and thought, “Maybe.”
The call grew persistent. A still, small voice pursued me with words, seemingly begging me to lay them on a page. But a much louder voice crowded out God’s insistence. It said, “You can’t. What could you possibly have to offer? There are so many better than you.”
But I wrote, and didn’t breathe a word to a single soul. I’d slam the computer shut when my husband walked into the room. When my son looked over my shoulder, I’d scoot him out of the room. If friends asked what I was up to, I’d stuff down my heart cry to share my labor of love.
In the recesses of my mind was a whisper, “They’ll laugh if you tell them.”
I had obeyed God’s call to write, but I had robbed myself of its joy. Instead of standing confident that His call would include His equipping, I stood wobbly-kneed and gripped by the chains of shame.
