October 27, 2013

Made For This

    Dark, indigo chill-breath filled the stables as I creaked open the wooden chest-high gate. Still bright stars defied the clock, six fifty-five a.m. The cold frosted itself across October, light seemingly scared to edge the eastern fields. At the call of the ATV rumble, horses trudged into dim stable light, one by one then all at once they came. Alex, Okie, Michael, Dandy. One by one halters fumbled, slipped on, tippy-toe tall. Gloved fingers caught burrs from manes, and eyes squinted to decipher names through strong morning black. Sundae, Watson, Faye, Buttercup, Harmony. Legs, necks, manes, and tails milling deep in the dawn. Horses a hundred deep. Dawn grew with each horse it caught, turned on one more ray of hopeful light. Okie, crazy girl, she pulled back and snapped her half-inch thick rope. The wide-eyed one, she walked briskly away. Faye, she was standing, confused, tied at Trentin's spot. The dawn had played switcheroo with black pony and brown. Someone caught Tinkerbell, a huge beast of a horse. Hoofs like dinner plates, and a massive heavy head. Tinkerbell. Dawn struggled warm, but not warm enough. I banged open a rusty locker and stuffed gloves double thick. The day, it shivered along. Thankful layers, ice cold toes at lunch. Wind that bit slowly and surely, into the warmth I hugged. The sun turned sulky and stood with folded arms behind a great grayness of clouds. Trees bent, surrendering warm glowing leaves to the whims of whipping wind.
    To be honest with you, I had no spiritual lesson behind all that writing I just did. I wrote because I loved it. Those words, I enjoyed bringing them to life. I savored each sentence, reveling in the strange beauty they own. When I write, I feel truly alive. Unlike when I talk. Let me tell you, about half of the time when I'm in a "social" setting I feel like a fish out of water. Awkward. That would be me. Or that's how I feel, anyway. So I write. And just like brilliant speakers and preachers, I can serve God with my gift. So I write. 

I once heard that the way a creation brings honor to it's creator is by doing what it was created to do. 

    Ever heard of a carpenter rejoicing because the table he'd crafted decided it's purpose was to be firewood? What about an artist smiling as she watched her painting rip itself into shreds, convinced it was meant to be paper mâché? 
No, friends. You were meant to be what you were meant to be. I was created a writer; not a speaker, not a singer, not a fashion model. 
You are a beautifully crafted creation, made with breathtaking care to fulfill a journey of a lifetime. Don't miss your sweet spot. Do what you were created to do. Be what you were created to be.
And if you don't know what that is yet, hang on. Hold your creator tightly by the hand and move forward. As you probably know, it's extremely hard to steer a stationary vessel. So whatever you do, keep moving. 
Do what you love to do, and do it for the glory of your creator. Especially do the things that return energy to you. Like my writing? Afterwards I feel like running around the house and grinning my heart out. Energy? Poured out. But then it was back again. Energy returned. 

So friends. That's about it for the week... just remember this: be who you were created to be by doing what you we created to do. That is how you can bring glory to your creator. 

What are your giftings? Art, math, cooking, speaking, building, cello, encouraging, a fashion eye, gymnastics.... what? 
How do you use them to honor your creator? I'd love to hear your stories! 

1 comment:

  1. I loved this blog post. . . . . You are soooo a writer


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