“Who do you think you are?” asked the voice.
Again, with prodding, “Who do you think you are…to call yourself a writer…to build a ‘writer’ page and expect people to like it? Really!? Just who do you think you are?”
The voice had a point. I am nobody important. I am uneducated, unimpressive, and unqualified.
With a sigh of resignation, I began to think the voice was correct.
Suddenly another Voice interrupted. This Voice was equally as lovely as a bird’s morning song and as powerful as the rushing waters of Niagara.
“Write. Obey. Trust Me.”
It was the Voice of the One who formed me in the womb, the One who orders my steps, the One who counts every strand of colored hair on my head, gray roots included.
It was the voice of my God.
I was drawn to His voice and took a step of faith. Then another, and another.
Something, however, instigated a pause. Are those…whispers!?
Yes. Disheartening whispers that came sneaking in, “Writing is not your gift. Have you forgotten the person who commented and said you ‘write like a truck driver at four in the morning?’ Or how about the other person who snidely suggested that you let your eight year old daughter do the writing for you?”
Ugh! Yes, I remember! What hurt and humiliation!
“Stop! Shut up!!” I cupped my hands over my ears, and my heart.
Casting the taunts aside, I ignored that vile accuser and took another step forward. Obedience will help me overcome.
Relentlessly the whispers carried on increasing in hurtfulness, attacking my most vulnerable areas by comparing me to others. The hissing voice pointed out those who were successful, intelligent, and prolific. It took special aim reminding me of those with college and other degrees. “True writers, they are. But you? Who do you think you are?”
That’s when I had enough.
Turning abruptly I retorted, “What or who I think I am is irrelevant. What matters is knowing whose I am, and I am His! If my Lord calls me, I will obey. For it is Christ who is the Bread of Life; He alone is Living Water. If He chooses to quench a thirsty soul or feed a hungry heart through whatever quality of writing I might produce, so be it.
“Me? I am but an imperfect and fragile flower in His kingdom. Here today, gone tomorrow. But while I live, He will plant and cultivate my gifts to reflect His beauty and goodness. He will cause me to grow and blossom in season so that I become an aroma of heaven to those who pass by.”
So it was, with that unique get-thee-behind-me, I cast off shame and discouragement. Moving forward, other fragrant voices (friends who are also unique flowers in God’s garden) call out their encouragements to me.
Indeed the wicked whisperer still sneaks from behind goading me with, “Who do you think you are?”
My answer is succinct.
I don’t think…I know.