Father God: thank you that you are a giver of dreams. Help us to commit our gifts and talents to you, to be used by You for whatever purpose. Whether that's to entertain, to provide a temporary reprieve from the reality of life, or as a means for you to reach through the works of our hands to take the hand of someone hurting and draw them unto yourself. Just as you lavish us with good gifts, help us lavish you back. You are worthy, Lord God of praise and honor and thanksgiving. You are worthy of worship. You are worthy of everything that is in us. You are worthy of first place in our hearts. Come now, take up your rightful place in our lives and in our hearts. In our gifts, talents, abilities. As the three kinds brought you gifts, baby Jesus, so let us bring our talents and callings to you as an offering of love.
I speak before the world that I believe you've called me to write. It's not a career, but a calling. I beleive you cause these characters to speak to me. Even when I don't want to hear because of a hard critique or scathing contest remark. Even still, the voices whisper. Because someone out there needs to hear, needs to know that your heart is to them as it was to that character in my book.
I release the guilt of sitting me butt in this chair when I'd rather be playing with my children. For you spoke directly to my heart this weekend. (Thank you, Debbie Macomber. You have no idea how God used you. Your heart for God is evident and beautiful and inspiring. I'm sorry I missed your knitting session, but actually, your words stringed my heart back together where harsh words and doubt had ripped holes in the fabric of my spirit. God used you to heal that in me.) I now know that I am not neglecting my children. I'm teaching them that it is okay to chase a dream.
And mostly, the Giver of those dreams. Praise you, Daddy God. Praise you. Please lift those up who've been wounded in battle on this bloody road to publication. A road that I'm finding is paved with disapointment, rejection, but also, friends who will stick it out until the end, pick you back up and tug you along. Sometimes it feels like I'm crawling over broken glass on my hands and knees for miles. And why? Because God asked me to write as worship to Him. Don't write to get published. Don't write to minister. Don't write to win contests or to gain an editor's attention. Write for me. Published authors who in the only industry I've found where the mothers and fathers don't eat their young. The spirit of mentorship is awe-inspiring. I long to get to the point where I can help the little ones along the road. But I have much to learn and suspect I always will. The learning never stops, or your writing grows stale.
So for this reason, I say to the world, I pour my vial of words over you, Lord Jesus. As Mary broke the vial, and that gift meant so much to you. May my writing minister to your heart. May I always be faithful with this gift that you've entrusted me with. May I never compromise.
Receive, Lord. For you are worthy. Worthy. Worthy.