For the longest time, I didn’t even have a desk. What I placed my computer on from the time I was 19 until the time I was 30 was a cheap, round two-seater kitchen table. And I use the words kitchen table lightly, as it looked to be something that belonged more on the patio of my grandmother.
Those were the days before social media as we know it now; they were the days that my biggest distraction was spam IMs from my AOL messenger. But oh, how I would write and write and write until my wrists hurt from the weird angle from which I hoisted my hands over my keys. I woke up in the morning, went to work at my job as a bookstore manager, or non-profit budget coordinator, or marketing associate, or youth pastor, or director of communication, or graphic designer, or project manager, or whatever-my-job-was-those-days, and given any free moment from my duties, it was back to writing. There was not enough time to contain those words.
Now, I write for a living. I write books. Or, well, I’ve written three (1, 2, 3). I’ve written a bunch of articles for a bunch of places. I write messages for talks I give. Sometimes it’s a joy, sometimes it’s an obligation. Sometimes I put it aside and watch a season of Frasier on Netflix. Now, the challenge of blogging – of not being paid to do something and just doing it because of my love for it, well, I’m a little scared.
I’m scared I won’t have the tenacity to follow through, and do this – yikes – every day, except on the weekends.
I’m scared I’ll get disappointed in those darn numbers and say it’s not worth my time.
I’m scared I’ll…
Wow, this one’s hard to say.
I’m scared I’ll run out of good words.
There is a fear we must face when we do what we truly believe we are called to do: what if I try and fail?
Then who am I?
Oh, please remind me that I am a child of the King. A daughter of the One who sees me clothed in righteousness, not mistakes and sin and mud. Let me lean into You, my Father, when I break my own heart by filling it up with the chards of lies and not your soft truth.