Dry, shriveled leaves blowing down the alley. Hard, scraping noise in the dark. The sound caught my attention and found a place to hold on.
I’ve felt dry. Since submitting my novel to the Operation First Novel contest, I’ve felt withered—disconnected—in general, and from the Lord. I thought it might be just the letdown of completing a huge fourteen-month work during which I was happily cloistered from reality. But it’s more than that.
I realized writing is an act of worship for me—a gift I give back to the Lord—and I miss it.
I’ve said and prayed that I rely on the Lord for every breath. And for every word.
“He humbled you, causing you to hunger and then feeding you with manna, which neither you nor your fathers had known, to teach you that man does not live on bread alone but on every word that comes from the mouth of the LORD.” Deuteronomy 8:3 NIV
It was a blessed time, writing my novel—in a nearly constant loop of seeking and praising the Lord.
Now I’m in the praying-about-the-next-story phase, casting for the starting point. I have to remember that for some, the waters part before they take a step—others have to stick their toe in, and then the river parts.
I picture myself, sitting on my heels in the presence of the Lord, with my gift of writing in a wooden box before me. I shove the box out to the Lord. The world pulls it back to me. But I keep pushing it out, until finally I take my hands off of it, close my eyes, and watch and pray while I wait. Worshipping.