I’ve been quiet here, spending time inside my too-loud head for months now. Stuck is a word that comes to mind. Lost. Numb.
What am I doing here? What the hell am I really doing here, anyway?
It’s what happens when you find a spark and start building something, ignoring those gnawing doubts or those glaring red flags that warn trouble might be ahead. That you’re saying one intention, but your heart is saying another. That you want to help, but you also want to be read. No, more than that — you want to be noticed. You want to be validated.
You want to be made worthy.
And you believe (only now figuring it out) that you will finally find your worthiness if you build this beautiful space and pour out your words no less than three times per week, but maybe no more than five, and keep posts short, and ask a question at the end, and play all the games you’re supposed to play, get your analytics singing, build your following, it’s about influence.
No wonder I got burned out about once a month over the past year.
And then this winter, the great white-out. Burned allll the way out. I just haven’t been able to figure out what I have to say, or why it matters. At all.
And then, the whispers start.
This is always how I hear God. He starts in little whispers, things brought to mind, a light illuminating a corner and I am surprised at the very-familiar. It’s a revelation of sense-making when nothing of my words has made sense for months. Oh. Oh, yes. That’s right. I suppose that’s right. blink. blink.
And lately, the whispers — from all over, for that is where God is — the whispers are singing to me, calling me to remember my story, to tell it plain, reminding me that I’m not the only one who needs to hear it. That the desire to be understood isn’t the problem. The desire to make it my savior is.
But your story is still yours, and I’ve given it to you, and I’m asking you to tell it, God says. Don’t hide from the world the beautiful, painful, wondrous, piercing-and-mending thing I’m doing in you. Why be quiet about it? It’s so uniquely yours, and I’ve made it for your voice, yes this one, not hers and not hers and not his. Yours. My daughter. My beloved. Tell it true, and tell it loud.
Because I am already worthy, and I am already understood completely. And influence can be beautiful and life-giving (to others, not me). This space that has felt so dangerous is the safest place in the world, because everywhere is, because that is where God is. Because I am secure in his love. I rest in the palm of his hand, where grace lives.
And I can be an instrument here.
And instrument of his love, peace, grace. A voice in the darkness, a whisper to another spirit unknown.
Tell it true, and tell it loud.