left to write.

So yeah.
Let's call it a fresh start.

I have this thing about fresh starts. Somewhere in my room, there is an embarrassing stack of at least 14 abandoned journals that could testify on my behalf if you aren't convinced. I'm both endlessly optimistic and inconsistent. In fact, the older I get, the more I realize what a jumbled mess of contradictions reside in my tangled web of thoughts.

I am
distractedly interested.
curiously satisfied.
sincerely formulating.
passionately idle.
selfishly compassionate.
restlessly waiting.
fearfully trusting.
simply complex.

You should know that my head just swayed back and forth to the tune of believable disbelief on its own accord. Through the swelling of misty eyes, I'm gazing out the window unto the scattered marching of hurried feet and realizing just how much I need Jesus.

Desire? Yes.
But I'm talking about a life-giving NEED.

More and more, I find myself longing to be enraptured by Him completely. By perhaps a questionable duo of nature and choice, I am quite the fickle creature. My thoughts often tread lightly alongside the tracks of uncertain feet, hopelessly prone to distracting detours. Like now, for example. Whatever I was trying to accomplish with that last sentence was quickly swallowed by the crashing tide of my meandering mind.

So, I started with a point and I assure you that I'm wading through the murky waters of distraction to find it again.

Ah yes, contradiction. A startling one actualized in my heart yesterday. So here we go.

Back in high school, there used to be a tradition of nominating graduating seniors for various superlatives to be published in the yearbook. They usually started with "Most likely to...." and ended with an impressive/embarrassing/funny/predictable/ironic something or other.

Most likely to succeed.
Most likely to become famous.
Most likely to be president.
Most likely to discover the cure for cancer.
Most likely to change the world.
Most likely to survive in the wilderness on a pack of fruit snacks.

You get the idea. My name never followed any of these venerable teenage titles, and to be honest, I was disappointed to not be crowned with at least a shred of ridiculous glory. At the very least, my disappointment had earned, "Most likely to take these silly awards seriously enough to be upset at non-recognition." But no.

So here I am, nearly six years later, pondering the accreditation that my life now warrants. Hmm...

Most likely to rack up enough years of college to constitute a Ph.d but earn only a Bachelors.
Most likely to not fulfill any of the preconceived bullet points of a 5 year plan.
Most likely to be the official poster child of academic indecision.

Or something like that.

In case you are uncertain, academic indecision is defined as the inability to succinctly answer the question: "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

The evidence:
In the last 5 1/2 years, I have been enrolled at 5 schools and have had 5 different majors, not to mention that this is my second time at NIU.

The conclusion:
I am an academic chameleon.

But, somewhere along the way, I landed on Journalism. I've never called myself a writer or sought to be identified as such. Writing always seemed to just happen whenever my teeming swarm of thoughts required a mindflush. And I liked that, because it wasn't about controlling a craft. It was about recognizing my inability to navigate the depths of even my own mind and instead seeking the riches of wisdom that only come from Christ living in me. I've never been the Author. And I could never hope to be. But sometimes, He lets me write down what I see and feel and hope and live because of Him...and that is what is beautiful. Truly.

So, over the last year, I've officially become a student to writing. As far as I can tell, all this really surmounts to is about 200 pages of manipulated text that was mostly written on the fly because of the Procrastination Plague. Well, that and the realization that writing for the sake of anything but true fellowship with the Lord is not for me. Somewhere along the way, I lost my fervor for writing because, for the first time, I felt like it had become something that I controlled. Keen to style, to structure, to flow, to theme, all building up to a concerto of words that silently sing my praise. Though my pride swells even at the mention of such pampering, I quickly discovered that I had nothing left to say, to tell...to write. So I stopped. That is, I stopped writing what I love for Who I love.

I read something that struck me quite powerfully last night, and on a course sllyabus of all places. "It is no good thinking that the sensitive man is happier or greater. No one cares for your tragedy until you can sing about it..." [V.S. Naipaul]. I'm not sure that I completely agree with the entirety of the statement itself, but certain truth rings clearly in my heart. I can shout to the world all that is in me, but if for the sake of the self, I shout silence. What I may sing, so that all may hear clearly, is the melodious love of my Jesus. It is only by His Spirit flowing through me that can give purpose to my every word and by His amazing grace that I have anything worth singing.

Shall I call myself a writer and not write? It is but another contradiction in the bevy that I already bear. In the same way, shall I call myself a Christian and not follow Christ? I'm not talking about a casual stroll that frequently detours in distraction. I am referring to the race of my lifetime. Not against others, but against my own self. Against my pride, my selfishness, my laziness, my excuses, my regrets, my shame, my insecurity, my uncertainty. Too often I feel their pressure beating at my neck and so slow my pace in quick defeat.

And so I return to these questions:
Shall I call myself a writer and not write?
Shall I call myself a Christian and not follow Christ?

In both instances, I am not defined by my potential to perform in either area. No matter how intently I insist on my ability or my passion to write, I must, in fact, write to be a writer. Likewise, but so much more significant, no matter how much I assure myself or others of my intent to follow Christ, if I am not running unabashedly after Him, can I truly deem myself a Christian? It is not by my intentions that I shall be defined, rather by the way in which my passions, my love, my devotion unfold that I may be known. May I be known in and by Jesus always. For He is my passion, my love, my devotion. And it is by the steadfastness of His very nature that I may set my sights on Him and run with reckless abandon.


"Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus, the founder and perfector of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is setated at the right hand of the throne of God." [hebrews 12:1-2]