A writer is not a writer because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, or because everything she does is golden. A writer is a writer because, even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway. — Junot Diaz
Discouragement and despair aren’t emotions that can be tossed aside with an, Stop feeling discouraged! Stop wallowing in despair! The emotions are real. They can’t be overcome with orders to buck up and feel better.
They have to be overcome in another way, the way of action. Even if I am completely lost in desolation, I can act. I can move forward. I can keep writing anyway.
Diaz’ statement returns me to a recent journal entry. I found myself asking, How do I practice drawing close when my heart and mind is weary? I knew all the right answers. I could pass the pop quiz in Sunday school.
I didn’t do that this time. I let the question linger on the page. I sought advice in The Valley of Vision and truth in the Bible. I found some. The Valley of Vision entry says I have another Master. I must turn my heart toward Him, let my life speed toward Him as an arrow from a bow towards complete obedience.
The piece continues: Grant me grace to bear Thy will without repining, and delight to be not only chiselled, squared, or fashioned, but separated from the old rock where I have been embedded so long, and lifted from the quarry to the upper air, where I may be built in Christ forever.
I find two points of application. One is trajectory. No matter how I feel, I can act as an arrow shot from a bow. Second, as I act, I begin to delight again. The act itself brings joy.
That returns me to my original question, How do I practice drawing close when my heart and mind is weary?
Answer: I obey despite everything. I seek God in a land where there is no water (Psalm 63).
I find Him. Not because I feel or order my way to Him, but because I act. I pursue. I keep writing anyway. The discouragement starts to dissipate, but I don’t realize it’s happening. I am caught up in delightful, trusting obedience again. Hope has come, and I am writing, wild and free, within it.
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