I used to write.
Weird to say. I used to…
I’ve wanted to write is also true. I’ve been compelled for a long time…and have successfully held back from it. Not what I should have done, but it is what I did.
Serious conversations for three years have been party comprised of telling someone that I feel this strong urge from God to write. It’s like He’s putting specific words and phrases in my head for me to express. I’ve been very good at not doing that. It’s been for one reason.
Moses figured it. Jeremiah did. Isaiah and Gideon did, too.
I’m too broken. Moses’ speech issue. Jeremiah’s youth. Isaiah’s unclean lips. Gideon’s decidedly unimposing stature. And me…
I’ve managed to hold back because anyone with an eyeball could look at me and know that I don’t live up to what I say I believe. And more than anyone with an eyeball, me…myself…with two eyeballs and an acute awareness of the truth in my mind, body, soul, and spirit…I knew the brokenness that flowed, and flows, through my veins.
Still, despite becoming rather adept at squashing the prodding to put these thoughts down on virtual paper, it was just a few weeks ago I told my wife that I needed to start. Then consecutive Sunday services were those final nails in the coffin of dodging. So, here I am, and here I go.
Nothing has changed about being broken. I imagine it becoming painfully obvious. It’s my part of the mess and deep down, I’d prefer that the mess was outside the front gate rather than deeply rooted in me.
The next post will be more about the hopes of this writing but I’ll explain it like this for now. If the four streams in the end of Ghostbusters were faith, culture, self, and Scripture, I hope to cross them until it looks like a single one. Maybe it will flow like the stream in Ezekiel 47.