Last night Mr. Fantastic and I sat on opposite ends of the sofa, writing. Both of us were intent on one purpose: finishing the first chapter of our respective books.
Three laundry baskets sat, awaiting folding. I never seem to get to the laundry these days.
Honestly, I would rather fold laundry than step out and attempt a book. I hate shooting for the moon. I don't like taking risks, being in the pressure cooker of potential failure, or embracing the unknown and uncomfortable.
I pray things like, "Okay, God. I'll do hard stuff if You promise it will all be a blazing success, make perfect sense, and we will all live happily ever after because I did this."
In other words, make it worth my while, Lord.
God responds to these prayers like I respond to my children when they ask for a puppy for Christmas.
Wink, wink. Nod, nod. Put it on your list, baby.
Of course, sitting across the sofa is my stable, normal husband. He just types away, without an insecure, unfaithful thought in his handsome head.
I watch him and copy his unaffected attitude. God smiles down on me. He sees my wacky fears and loves that I charge in anyways.
We please God most when we look ourselves in the mirror, face the music of our own lacking, off-key melody, then dance in faith anyways.
Tomorrow I am going to a writing conference. There will be real life, in-the-flesh publishers and agents there. I'm going alone. I don't know a single other person attending.
A friend who lives far away won a drawing for registration to this conference. Then she gave it to me. I was thrilled until I realized I was scared out of my mind.
In an attempt to cover my social anxiety, I am trying to choose an outfit that says, "I am bold and totally secure even when I'm in a room full of strangers." I have considered donning my new red pants, but will probably wear grey or black, because that's what I wear when I feel scared.
In my hands will be the first chapter of my book, with my whole heart spread out in words, bracing itself for approval or dismissal.
This heart beating in my chest, though, is not my own. It belongs to Another. Even if my writing is not good enough for the world, my obedience is always precious to Him.
I write in faith. I write for Him. And that is worth taking the risk and embracing the possibility of failure.
Succeed or fail, all for Him.