I’m not sure what kind of bird struggled through the air over a house on my route home from work. With winds gusting up to 45 miles an hour, the poor creature seemed to have difficulty getting to where it wanted to go.
I felt sympathetic. Some days I feel like as hard as I try to fly straight, to get closer to my goals, it seems circumstances blow me off course.
It seems like it would make more sense for the bird to hunker down and wait out the storm. Maybe it could find a cave or a cistern or somewhere to hide out.
That’s my temptation. I get discouraged and want to hide, to bury myself beneath my bedsheets, to close out the world and lose myself in a world of cinematic drama or literary mystery and a chunk of chocolate.
It’s not necessarily bad to make time for oneself, or to escape once in awhile. I’m afraid that if I didn’t have a family and a job, I might live in my bed.
I want to be a writer. It’s the only thing that I feel I excel at. On the other hand, I’m not sure I can convince anyone else who matters that I have anything worth writing about. I’m not an expert; I have no letters after my name; I’ve lived a mere three decades. How do I get from here to there? How much do I give up? How many dead ends do I chase? When is a dream just a fantasy?
Add on a funeral, an evaporated opportunity, and complete confusion about ministry, and I’m completely overwhelmed.
That’s when a song reminded me of Sunday’s sermon, and I realized I had to let the Good Shepherd take care of me… to dress my wounds, to hold me, to lead me in a safe way.
The winds will die down, and I’ll find my way again. In time.