This blog was in the works longer than I want to admit to you.
It’s actually undergone two redesigns since I stopped writing in my tiny corner of the blogosphere two years ago.
But Facebook updates and Instagram captions can no longer hold space for the words in my head and heart. (I’m sure my Facebook friends are thankful I’ve made this move, since my status updates are oftentimes long enough to be blog posts. This is my attempt to get away from that!)
How does the most comfortable next step for us feel like the most uncomfortable next step for us at the same time?
This is the paradox of writing for me. It’s something that I cannot completely abandon. There’s a sacred comfort in writing for me, yet there’s also a scary discomfort in releasing vulnerable words from the heart and into the world through writing.
But I’m learning that the most uncomfortable thing we’ll ever do can also be the most comfortable thing we’ll ever do—like the familiarity of pulling in your driveway, walking through your front door, and slipping off your shoes after some adventure. It feels like coming home.
It’s most comfortable because it’s that uncomfortable thing that makes you come alive—that nagging of the soul that won’t let it go.
Dare I say it feels like obedience to God Himself?
Among an audience of college students last week, I heard a pastor share three indicators that you’ve found your God-given gift:
- You experience joy when you use your gift.
- You are equipped for your gift.
- God affirms your gift through others.
Writing is a gift to me, and I say this because I feel like it is more of a God-given “get-to” than a me-given gift to Him or you. There is a deeply satisfying joy when we “fan into flame” (as Paul calls it in 2 Timothy 1:6) God’s gift to us.
Howard Thurman said, “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”
I believe this is what Paul meant when he wrote to Timothy to “fan into flame” his gift.
I think Thurman’s question is important, and writing is what makes me come alive most. It’s that space where comfort and discomfort coexist and obedience is born.
Maybe it’s in that tension between the comfort and discomfort—the now and not-yet, the under-qualified but overjoyed, the fearful but brave—where we uncover our God-gifts and take our faith-leap.
After all, we serve a God more than able to grow our wings on the way down.
What is your faith-leap?
Welcome to mine. I’m so glad you’re here.