my Author, my Reader
I think I know my book.
I had been asking God what to write, and in the mean time of not hearing, I thought of so many good ideas. Each one was like taking my pretty little maidservant and passing her along to my husband. Here. Birth me a story out of this. None of it ever felt right, and I kept getting mad at it.
Yesterday at church, we sang. I was begging, and I felt a chorus of beggars with me. We mute sang “Yahweh. Yahweh. Yahweh.” Fixed on Christ’s ability, the voices came out.
And so I sat with a pen for the sermon, and instead I wrote a small unexpected outline. God pointed to Himself in it – a book that I want to read; a book that I’m supposed to write.
And for whom? We ask ourselves the writerly questions. Who is the audience? That is my desperate request – that I could desire the audience of One.
I’m realizing lately how often I entertain everyone but the One who knitted me together. I am intentional to entertain friends and the church and my family. In the night, when my heart turns to a work horse inside of me, I entertain death. I lie awake and entertain pain and a vain imagination.
And so I’m learning again, as I imagine we all do on our way to skindeath, on our way toward the veil and the birth into our real bodies, how to live here – how the practical day-to-day life feeds our incubating souls. The audience of One and what He demands in artistic adoration toward Himself is enough to fill our hearts and our minds.
And what with my body and the things predestined for it to do, the unexciting provisions for the body that make way for the soul? I make the bed, unload the dishwasher, bake bread, organize the closets, and list my favorite meals. I discipline myself to teach the boys Bible, their imaginations wandering, too. We train the physical, so the spiritual speaks in appropriate volume.
Dear Jesus, my Reader, organize me so I can come out of this body having used it for what it was made.