Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

The best-selling Christian author knows God called her to write. He confirmed the call when her books became best-sellers. The up-and-coming Christian author trusts God called her to write. He confirms the call with each increasing success. The faith-filled Christian author believes God called her to write. She knows that if she acts on that gift of faith she'll receive even more than she's dreamed. And me? I think God called me to write, because He made me this way. He gives me words that I love to put on the page. But does He give me dreams, or are they mistakes?

I used to read my Bible and listen to God while feeding the baby. I asked, "Why do you give me so much when I haven't got the time to pass anything on?" "Perhaps My words are a gift just for you." The kids grew older. I read my Bible and wrote down the words I received. "Why do you give me so many words when nobody's going to read them?" "Perhaps they're a gift for one reader, and that's enough." Then the kids grew up. I found a publisher. "Why do you give me  books when they won't sell?" And God won't tell. But perhaps that just means I should have listened closer to Him before.

We were needy when our basement flooded; wet, on our knees, packing boxes of washed-out memories into the trash. We were loved when friends from church and community gathered to help us out. But now I hurt. Is it wrong to mourn lost memories... lost stuff... the stuff of my dreams... when I know so many others have lost so much more?

Our pastor's take on the Beatitudes: Grace for the needy; kneel down and receive. Love for our service; stand up to give mercy and peace. Then hope for the hurting, for falling, then back to our knees. He calls it Christian aerobics.

Did God flood my basement to stop me wasting time writing? Did Satan flood it to stop me writing the things God called me to write? Or are flooded basements just life in a broken world?

My purpose... is to make my readers see through different eyes, to invite them into real and wounded lives, to show the power of forgiveness and the miracle of hope, to invite questions, draw back the curtain, reveal some tiny glimpse of what lies behind. In Bible stories I'll show a real world of real people--real history, real science--and a very real God. In contemporary drama my real people will cry for real release. In animal stories I'm still asking readers to see... In science fiction, in fantasy... My purpose is to write words that people will read. But where will I find the power to place those words where readers will see them? And is my purpose aligned with God's? And is my power for many or for one?

I was given solitude and I wrote alone. I was given quietness and I ignored the noise. I was given awareness when I needed to lead a group and see people's needs. The gift of tolerance made me aware that my tolerance wasn't a crime. And now I have power. Do I?

Star gifts aren't drips of glory from on high. They're not even treasures for us to unwrap, but rather validations of gifts God has given and is using in our lives. We're meant to dip a hand in the dish and remove one star, with prayer, then read and ponder, see and wonder. It's true that all my star gifts have meant something special to me in the past. But this year I got such a wondrous gift, one to long for, to dream of, to desire--a gift of power. All I feel is its lack. But perhaps star gifts aren't meant to be feelings either.

My star gift was power. But what good's power without purpose? Last year I wondered what good my great high purpose might be without power. I guess I'm never satisfied.

My star gift from church, delayed because snow got in the way, was a gray card labelled power. My nerves now frayed from bailing water in the basement, I feel powerless. Meanwhile Mum, harried and harassed by my plight, received the gift of peace. We're both hoping and praying the rain and snow might cease.