The new year always gets me thinking about resolutions. Not necessarily because I want to make one, or even twenty, but because they are what everyone else is talking about. New year, new chances, new opportunities, new promises to ourselves and everyone else. I never make resolutions because I never keep them. And who wants the disappointment right? Not me. I have this fear of failure and of making a fool of myself. So, inevitably, I don't try. Then days like today hit and I begin to question my impact on the world around me. What contributions have I made? And I list in my head all the people I know who have bettered themselves, or those around them.
People who have continued their education and earned further degrees.
People who have written articles, even books, that have impacted others.
People who excel in every aspect of their vocations.
People who, when they speak, cause others listen.
I reflect on my life and what I have done. I am not impressed. Maybe I am not alone in saying this. Maybe it is a common malady. I don't say it out of self-pity; not anymore at least. I say it out of reflection and honest opinion. But maybe that is what we are to think of our own lives. If we do impress ourselves with our own works, that could lead us down a road we don't want to travel. So do I remind myself to be content with what I am doing and where I am? Or do I hunt for the courage to step foot on a new path? I guess it depends on where that new path is going. Where do I see this new path leading? Is it for selfish gain and satisfaction, or is it for the joy and betterment of others?
I want to write stories. I want to write stories for children, plus I have a mystery or two in my head. And a book about being a mother and wife. That's the new path I'm hinting at. I've taken a writing course and I have a story ready to submit to a magazine. I've had it ready for months now. It's safe in my laptop's memory, patiently waiting to be printed and mailed away. Such a cooperative little story! But I don't feel that it's anything special. Nothing to write home about, as they say. And I think to myself, why do I want it published? Because I want to "be published?" Because I want recognition as "a writer?" Yep, I do. Selfish of me? Yep, it is. Might kids enjoy the story? Yep, I guess they might. Jo-Jo likes it.
But then I think about the talents and gifts God gives us. He gives them for a reason. If I have stories in my head that I want to write, why not share them with others? Maybe the selfish thing would be to write them and then keep them to myself. Or, worse yet, to never write them. Satan sure does have fun with me. He finds all kinds of new ways to keep me down and cause me to doubt my importance. Will anything come of this? How can I know. I think that is another personal haunt of mine; the need to know I will be safe in putting myself "out there." But I think I have decided that I will take that step this week, of printing and mailing my first story. Maybe, pessimist that I am, I need to set the goal of receiving my very first rejection letter. I'll frame it and hang it proudly in my room. It will signify the courage I found to take the first step. I'll keep you informed.
Well He knows what best to grant me;
All the longing hopes that haunt me,
Joy and sorrow, have their day.
I shall doubt His wisdom never;
As God wills, so be it ever;
I commit to Him my way.
LSB 732, vs.5
