I spilled coffee on my denim shorts.
My laptop in front of me, along with an old, leather journal from five years ago, I set out to continue writing my spiritual memoir, to master the art of being a disciplined writer.
But I quickly and quietly reached for the brown Dunkin napkins in the canister beside me to clean up my soggy mess, hoping no one noticed half my 99 cent refill of mocha iced coffee ended up in my lap.
I came back a few days later, my plastic refill cup in hand again, only to make a wrong turn into the wrong parking lot. Then, after getting my coffee and finding a table next to an outlet for my laptop, a wasp flew in my hair.
I swatted and watched it bang against the window, thankful to have avoided being stung before I realized what was crawling through my hair.
Everyone has to start somewhere.
Every writer has to find their niche, their personal writing nook, their schedule, routine, and writing habits.
And me? Freshly graduated from college and with a press in my heart to write more than ever, sometimes I wonder: What am I doing? Am I crazy? What is all of this time spent writing going to amount to in the end?
Before I realize it, my mind gets twisted with anxious thoughts that steal my joy–my passion to follow the Lord wholeheartedly and my love of writing.
Its then that I hear a still, small voice whisper to my soul: Be still. Know that I am God.
God. The One who can take a handful of loaves and fishes and feed multitudes. The One who can make blind eyes crack open, take lame legs and bear weight to walk, and raise what no longer has breath and make alive again. The One who has lifted my own life and set me on my feet again, who knit me together inwardly and is acquainted with my rising and my lying down:
“He says, ‘Be still, and know that I am God; I will be exalted among the nations, I will be exalted in the earth.’” (Psalm 46:10)
Because the quieter I become, the more I can hear His voice saying this is the way; walk in it (Isaiah 30:21).
So I pull up at Starbucks on roasting June afternoons, plug in my laptop with my grande Valencia Orange next to me, and write. And write. And write. Amidst young mothers with small children sipping on sugary frappachinos and other introverted, bookworms like me occupying the small, wooden tables next to the outlets.
No, I’m not guaranteed that it will become anything. But I have faith that this journey of writing is not in vain but serves purposes beyond fathomable for my mind to understand right now.
“Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill His promises to her!” (Luke 1:45)
As Mary had faith to believe in what wasn’t yet visible, so I want to have faith to believe in what my eyes cannot yet see. I want to have faith not in my own wasp-swatting, coffee-spilling self, but in the Author of all authors who speaks tenderly to the souls of His people.
Be still. Know that I am God. And I will be exalted.