God said, “Write.”
I didn’t want to write. There were so many other things I thought I should do with my time and perceived talents, things that might even bring in some money. But write? Write about what?
Yet, He kept giving me that same instruction, over and over.
At the same time, I was begging for direction—prayer after prayer, crying out in frustration. I kept asking for a purpose, for the fulfillment that comes from knowing I’m within His will. And yet, I was willfully ignoring the very thing He’d already asked of me.
So here I am, back at the place I started. Writing. Even if no one reads these words, I’ll continue until He tells me otherwise.
I want to tell a story. My story. The only one I have.
Outside of my husband and close friends, I had a few encounters where I felt the Holy Spirit tugging at me, urging me to embark on this journey. The first time it happened was during a midnight run to the gas station.
My husband drove us to the only open store in our small town of Grambling. I went inside, bought what I needed, and was ready to leave, avoiding eye contact and hoping to get out unnoticed. But before I could make my exit, a man stopped me.
Internally, I rolled my eyes. The last thing I wanted at midnight was a conversation with a stranger. But he managed to catch my attention long enough to say: “God is calling you to write. You will reach women and be greatly used.”
I was stunned. Of all the things I expected to hear in that moment, that wasn’t one of them. He disappeared into the night as suddenly as he appeared.
When I got back to the car, I tried to explain the randomness of what had just happened to my husband, but the words didn’t come easily. I broke down, overcome with emotion, the kind that leads to an ugly, gut-wrenching cry. My husband wasn’t surprised. He saw it for what it was: a message from God, delivered by a stranger.
That wouldn’t be my last encounter of this kind. (Side note: Apparently, God has a thing for gas stations, because my next experience happened at one too.)
An older woman approached me as I filled up my tank. She didn’t know it, but her words would water the very seed planted in me by that first stranger. She said, “You are called to reach women. You need to write.”
Years passed, and I resisted. Writing didn’t provide the instant gratification I thought should accompany a calling from God. So, I didn’t do it. I sought success elsewhere—professionally, socially—but the longing inside of me remained.
It took time, a lot of internal and spiritual work, to understand the folly of my decision. I now realize that nothing, except obedience, would fill that emptiness. It’s not that I suddenly love writing. It’s that my desire to be obedient now outweighs my desire to satisfy fleeting, worldly wants.
Here I am, with my sin of rebellion on full display.
There was a lot of growing up I had to do. I needed to understand what true obedience looks like, what submission to His will feels like. I had to accept that I can’t live out God’s purpose for me while refusing to fight against my flesh and embrace discomfort.
Looking back, I cringe at my past stubbornness.
But here I am, once again reminding myself that perfection is not the goal—progress is. I’m here, writing, taking one step at a time in faith, trusting that He’ll continue to guide me, even when I can’t see the whole path.
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