Being a writer is hard

Being a writer is hard

Making my way through the blogs this morning. Here’s a good one…

Jessica Bakkers

In no other career does ‘going to work’ depend on having the muse Calliope descend and bless you with inspiration (okay, artists everywhere are afflicted with this too).

Yet ask most laypeople their opinion of writers and you’ll get a hazy hybrid of JK Rowling and a hobo. We’re either a few days away from publishing The Next Big Thing, or a few days away from destitution (yes, I know which analogy better suits).

Few other careers require an explanation or long-winded speech following the epitaph “I’m a [insert career here]”, yet should you utter “I’m a writer” you’re likely have to jump through the following hoops;

“Oh yeah? What have you written?” Prove it.

“No I mean what books have you written?” Because a writer only writes books.

“Do you make any money doing it?” Doubtful.

“Can I read something?” Let’s be clear, I don’t want to buy something…

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Coming To Life On Easter, The Epitome Of Second Chances

Coming To Life On Easter, The Epitome Of Second Chances

When I was a lad, my favorite holiday was Thanksgiving because it seemed, of all the celebrated days, to have the only practical (and understandable, to my child’s mind) explanation. It was The Day to eat and be grateful for it.

If I recall, the Fourth of July was my second-favorite day, because it, too, was in remembrance of some tangible thing, our country’s hard-won independence, and because it featured the very visible baseball games and hot dogs and fireworks. And, since I was a sweets-loving kid (as much as Mom and Dad permitted), I suppose Halloween would’ve been a runner up (for the candy), along with Christmas (only for the presents).

For a long, long time, Easter had little meaning for me. It was just some made-up (but yes, anticipated) rite of Spring. Oh, how that now has changed! This morning, I had, for the first time (I’m pretty sure), a quiet revelation about it.

April 16, 2008 (or it might have been the 14th) was the day I entered into recovery and was exposed to the healing and transformational power of God, and his plan of salvation. To put it more accurately, I should say that it was the day I began to understand Good Friday; Christ on The Cross, paying the penalty for all my sin(s). And for nine years, I’ve thought and dwelt obsessively only on that part of God’s New Deal. (And in effect, only on what I dared to presume to have unforgivably done to nail Christ there.)

This Easter morning, during my quiet time and at a sunrise service, I reconsidered this day and its real significance. The Work of Christ was not in just taking the punishment for all that’s wrong in the world, but in the equally important act of rising again. The Resurrection, the epitome of second chances.

Because, really, the one without the other is a half-finished job. It’s incomplete (and dare I say, almost meaningless – in a way) to have sin just taken away without the rebirth of new life. Good Friday without Easter is like the night without the following dawn.

The lesson is important on this Easter day, 2017, because it symbolizes a return of me. Dear Reader, you may have noticed that I’ve been absent on Sharing God’s Story. This is due to my being… out, of sorts. My thinking this morning revealed to me that the old doubt and disbelief had been creeping back into my mind and soul, taking my body along with it, exactly like feasting on Good Friday without drinking in The Third Day and living again. I had lost The Light, the passion of belief from my early days of faith. I had lost sight of God; my eyes focused, instead (and again), lustfully on this world.

I pray that this figurative resurrection, one of an uncountable number of second chances, this time will continue. I have, at least, continued journaling, and have a backlog of topics to blog about. Please rejoin me in Sharing God’s Story In My One Small, Salvaged Life.