Real or Delete

I sit here in a coffee shop with relaxing music playing and bubble tea in front of me. My pen and paper are also in front of me, but I don’t know what to write.

It’s not that I have nothing to say.

All week, I’ve been struggling. I’ve been struggling to know what to write. Every time I try to turn on the Ideas section of my brain, I hit a wall.

I could simply delete my blog.

That would be easy.

I’m a little grumpy at this {ridiculous} idea. Why did I ever choose to start writing in the first place? I’m not in the mood to be this vulnerable.

I love when other people are vulnerable.

And I love asking questions to make other people vulnerable. Some of you have been targets of that enthusiasm. I can almost see your head nodding in agreement and a little tiny smile sneaking across your face. =) (Raise your hand in the comments section below if you know what I’m talking about. You know how to use emojis.)

I decide to take a break and so I walk into the bathroom. Obviously, the plaque on the wall has been waiting for this opportunity to speak with me. “Live by grace, not perfection.” I would like to turn the plaque around so I can’t be convicted by those blaring words.

But I know it’s true. I’ve got to get over this perfection thing.

So I’m always blessed when other people are willing to be honest about their humanity. When it comes to me, I love a good excuse. More than once, people have had to call me out on that area of my life.

For some reason, I’m remembering a particular conversation I had one evening with a group of people around a well-seasoned kitchen island. I don’t remember the entirety of the discussion, but I do remember I was asking everyone what their goals for the new year were. Great question, right?

After we had gone around the circle and everyone shared something, they decided to ask me what my goals for the new year were. Fair enough.

But I had one measly little goal that didn’t feel worth sharing. I was too overwhelmed with life at the time to even spend time thinking about the next year, let alone coming up with any goals I was excited about. I was mostly just hoping to make it through the next year without being a miserable wreck.

And I didn’t feel like sharing that.

I guess that’s what I’m up against. I don’t feel like sharing the real thing. My humanity is staring me in the face and is almost as blaring as that plaque on the wall. What I have to say feels measly and not worth sharing.

I’ve always enjoyed watching other people using their talents to create and then to share with others. I was watching a friend one day as she was painting. She was planning to give it away as a gift. I thought how beautiful it was and wished that painting would be a creative outlet for me as well so I would have something to share with others too. However, I knew the thought was a selfish one and soon dismissed it. Before I left the room, I told her, “You should get your painting out there for people to see a little more! It’s really good stuff.”

I was sure her talent should no longer be buried and that she should do something useful with it.

I wondered what my creative outlet might be so that I could have something to share with the world too.

Months later, I was on vacation. I spent a lot of time thinking about my life. My current chapter was about to close and I was thinking “next”. I’m a dreamer—thinking on the next thing is something I do very well. *insert exasperated sigh*

In the weeks leading up to this vacation, people kept telling me that I need to write. I mostly shrugged them off and pretended I wasn’t listening. Deep down though, I knew they were right because I do love writing.

Now I had time to think. And writing kept coming to me. Write, write, you need to write.

I wasn’t sure what to write or how to write or where to write. Like, I’m sure I’m willing but—

As I wrestled one evening, I suddenly remembered my friend. The friend who can paint beautifully. I remembered telling her to use her talent by giving it to the world.

I remembered wondering if I have a creative outlet to share with the world.

In that moment, I knew. Writing was God’s gift to me, and I was hardly using it.

My talent was stuffed in the back of my closet somewhere, inches of dust piling on top of it.

So much for my friendly little sermons to friends who were already using their own talents more willingly than I was.

And now here I am—sitting in a coffee shop with peaceful music, bubble tea, and pen and paper — wishing I could stuff my talent back in my closet so I wouldn’t need to share it with the world. Because sharing is vulnerable.

What resonates and what simply does not? Send an email or leave a comment.