I have a tendency to brood. My moodiness often leads to a fountain of words poured out onto a page, some of them usable and some not. Often, caught in the throes of an idea, the thought pops into my mind: "What if I died in the next thirty seconds? Cut off abruptly, mid-thought, without any resolve or completion to my writing. How useless my work would be!"
And it is true, that to those left behind, it would be a very abrupt end, and my work would bring very little resolution. It would be abrupt and sudden, the creative spark cut off with the life. Yet, as I ponder its suddenness, I am immediately enveloped in the thought of Eternity. My life, and thus the writing I complete (or don't) in this life, is not pointless. Whatever unfinished work I leave here will be fulfilled and perfected in me in Glory, in a way I cannot comprehend this side of Eternity.
The creativity at work in me now is but a dim reflection of the Holy, the fullness of which I will taste in the Resurrection. I do not write in the confidence of some earthly outcome. I write with a confidence in the Holy and the Eternal. I write trusting that there is a greater purpose in these meagre words I scribble down than a book publication. I write with a hope in the transformative work of the Holy Spirit, to take these pathetic, lackluster words and make them lastingly beautiful.
And so I sit in front of this cluttered screen, staring at these seemingly uninspiring words I have jumbled together into sentences, and I ask myself: Will I lay the earthly outcome of my work to rest in my King's very capable hands and strive instead for the heavenly? Or will I strive instead to drag the heavenly down and sully it with my earthly ambition?
And it is true, that to those left behind, it would be a very abrupt end, and my work would bring very little resolution. It would be abrupt and sudden, the creative spark cut off with the life. Yet, as I ponder its suddenness, I am immediately enveloped in the thought of Eternity. My life, and thus the writing I complete (or don't) in this life, is not pointless. Whatever unfinished work I leave here will be fulfilled and perfected in me in Glory, in a way I cannot comprehend this side of Eternity.
The creativity at work in me now is but a dim reflection of the Holy, the fullness of which I will taste in the Resurrection. I do not write in the confidence of some earthly outcome. I write with a confidence in the Holy and the Eternal. I write trusting that there is a greater purpose in these meagre words I scribble down than a book publication. I write with a hope in the transformative work of the Holy Spirit, to take these pathetic, lackluster words and make them lastingly beautiful.
And so I sit in front of this cluttered screen, staring at these seemingly uninspiring words I have jumbled together into sentences, and I ask myself: Will I lay the earthly outcome of my work to rest in my King's very capable hands and strive instead for the heavenly? Or will I strive instead to drag the heavenly down and sully it with my earthly ambition?
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