I am trying not to be afraid of the blank page, and I am trying
to do things that bring life. Writing and reading are both life-practices, and
I’m doing a little better with one than the other. Reading is a lot less
vulnerable – I can react and process in the quiet of my mind, and I can learn
things, safe inside my ivory tower.
I think Jesus asks more, though. I don’t think He’s the
biggest fan of ivory towers.
There’s no point reading a book about intercession if I’m
not going to engage with the call to intercede. There’s no point reading (and breaking
my heart over) Half the Sky and not beginning to act. You can’t read
about becoming the ‘you’ God intended, nod over all the wisdom, and then not
act. You can’t read about overcoming an eating disorder and pretend you’re not
still fighting your own.
I can while away the hours of my life by watching Grey’s
Anatomy or playing on pinterest [both of which are fine in moderation, right?]
or I can try and be brave and get vulnerable and meet new people (how?!) and
live the life of intentional, incarnational community that I dream about. I can
read all the Kathy Escobar and Jen Hatmaker and Sarah Bessey and Ann Voskamp
and Danielle Strickland I like, but at some stage I have to get off my butt and
do something and not just sit in
coffee shops with the books and the blogs.
Someone somewhere once said that part of growing up is
leaving the coffee shop and actually doing the things that for so long you have
talked and dreamt about with grand idealism. There are stories to be lived and
told, with all their disappointment and hurt and hard work and hope and glory
and Kingdom. I’m sick of disqualifying myself and seeing only my inadequacies
and brokenness. While I might be
inadequate and broken, my King is not. His strength is made perfect in our
weakness, and it is only Christ in us that gives us hope of glory. Inasmuch as
this is about me leaving the coffee shop and doing something, the beautiful
paradox is that really, it’s all about Him.
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