When You’ve Done Everything Right and Still Feel Like You Failed
I stared into the bathroom mirror and asked myself a very important question: How many people out there can tell I'm faking it?
Not exactly the inspirational pre-event pep talk I was hoping for.
I had done everything right. Really, I had. I'd lined up another speaker to carry most of the load. I'd purchased the decorations and gifts weeks in advance. I'd even managed to say "no," which, if you know me, is practically an Olympic sport, to several things threatening to crowd my calendar. When the back tweak hit, I rested. When the newsletter deadline loomed, I pushed it back without guilt. When the company arrived, I graciously excused myself when needed.
I had managed my time, my energy, and my expectations. I was practically a wellness guru.
And yet, there I stood, more tired than when the week began, staring at a reflection that told the whole unvarnished truth.
Stop Trying to Grow Grapes!
I stared at the blank screen for forty-five minutes.
Not because I had nothing to say. I'm a writer. I always have something to say. Just ask my husband. No, the problem was that I was trying too hard. I was forcing it. I was sitting there with my knuckles white, my jaw tight, and my brain in a full-on wrestling match with itself, willing the words to appear. And the harder I pushed, the emptier that screen looked. The cursor just blinked at me. Slowly. Mockingly.
Does anyone else feel personally attacked by a blinking cursor? Just me? Okay. Good to know.
Here's what I've learned after writing more than thirty books: you cannot force good writing. You can sit at the desk, but the moment you start straining and striving and white-knuckling the keyboard, the words dry up.
When Pain Becomes Your Prayer
Do you ever feel like your body has become a battlefield instead of the temple it's supposed to be? I certainly do. As someone who wrestles daily with chronic illness, I've learned that some mornings the greatest act of faith is simply swinging my legs out of bed and placing my feet on the floor.
Yesterday was one of those days. The pain in my back, neck, and shoulders had me practically immobilized, and as I struggled to type out a few sentences, I found myself staring at the ceiling and asking the age-old question: "God, what are You doing?" It's a question I've asked more times than I care to admit, usually through tears and with a hefty dose of frustration thrown in for good measure.
For years, I approached my chronic pain like it was an enemy to be defeated, something standing between me and the "real" ministry God had called me to do. I prayed for healing. I begged for relief.