on getting something down, not thinking something up.

Writing has felt impossibly hard lately. 

(I’m embarrassed you just read those words. The second I typed them, I wanted to delete them. “Has felt?” “Impossibly hard?” Nice description. You call yourself a writer?)

Here are the facts. I have sat down to write no less than 10 times this week, and every single time I have sat down to write, the words have not come easily. I feel like a child trying to pull out a loose tooth that isn’t quite ready to detach.

Wiggle. Wait. Wiggle. Wait some more. 

I type words and then I delete them. I type words and then I roll my eyes at myself. I shut my laptop, defeated, grumpy, irritable. Looking for an excuse, I blame work, my messy house, this headache that won’t quit, the fact that I’ve been up since 4am. Who can write under these conditions anyway?

But underneath those excuses lies the truth: I am not willing to write badly—therefore, I cannot write at all. My own perfectionism is choking me. Again. 

I hate this about my creative self, the way my ego and quest for productivity so easily take over. I don’t want my writing to be wrapped up in what other people think of it. I also don’t want my writing to be wrapped up in what I did or did not not accomplish on any given day, in what number flashes back at me on the word count. 

I want my writing to be wrapped up in other things. 

I want my writing to be wrapped up in the act of bearing witness. I want my writing to reflect a woman who pays attention, who notices ordinary miracles, who marvels at every bird soaring across the sky the way her daughter does. I want to document the remarkable grace flooding my unremarkable life. I want to keep a record of answered prayers, big and small. I want to capture beauty and hope and love all around me. I want to put language to it, preserve it, let it sail—like a message in a bottle. 

I want to stop thinking I need to do anything more than that.

***

I’m finally reading through The Artist’s Way. Embarrassingly enough, I asked for this book for Christmas a few years ago, never read it, and donated it during one of my regular purge fests. When two friends started raving about the book, I ordered another copy. 

The book is a little woo woo and some of the sentiments make me roll my eyes but this one stopped me in my tracks: 

God as my source is a simple but completely effective plan for living.
God will provide. Our job is to listen to how.

Julia Cameron outlines this idea of God as our ultimate Creative Source. All ideas and all art originally start with Him. This source never runs out, never runs dry—we have access to it 24/7. 

I copy those lines into my morning pages. Put a star next to them. 

God is forever and always my creative source.

Do I really believe that? 

***

In the gospel of Mark, chapter 8, there’s a scene where the disciples are in a boat with Jesus, misconstruing a metaphor, per usual. In the midst of their confusion, they begin squabbling over the fact that they only have one loaf of bread—clearly not enough to share amongst themselves. 

It makes me think of all the times Brett and I have accidentally left the house without a diaper bag, arguing in the car over who forgot and who’s to blame and what we’ll do if there’s a diaper blowout in the middle of our outing. 

I thought *you* grabbed the diaper bag. 
No, *I* was putting the kids in the car seats.
When was the last time she pooped?!

I can just picture the disciples passing blame around, arguing over who forgot to pack a lunch. I thought Peter was on lunch duty today! No, it’s Bartholomew’s turn!

The irony of it all, of course, is that Jesus had just fed 4,000 people with seven loaves of bread, and—before that—5,000 people with only five loaves. 

The disciples had front row seats to both of those miracles. Yet here they are, sitting in a boat with Jesus, panicking that a single loaf of bread is not enough for them to share. 

Jesus says, “And do you not remember?” 

I imagine him putting his hand to his forehead, facepalm style. Seriously, guys? He reminds them of what he’s just done, how many people he fed, how much was leftover. He asks them to repeat his own miracles back to him: When I broke the five loaves for the five thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up? They recall: twelve. And the seven for the four thousand, how many baskets full of broken pieces did you take up? Seven. 

This reminds me of a daily conversation I used to have with my son Everett, upon picking him up from school (you know, back when children actually went to school). Every day, I would pick him up in the car line at 3:15. He would jog toward the car, wearing a backpack half the size of his body with no less than 14 keychains whipping back and forth. I’d stop the car. He’d climb in. I’d ask how his day was, he would say good or fine, and then he would ask the exact same question:

“Can we have a snack when we get home?”

I kid you not, this child asked the same question, every single day, within one minute of getting into the car. Every day I said yes. Of course. Obviously. After a while though, I started to get annoyed. Finally, one day, I told him so. 

“Everett,” I said, staring at his face in the rear view mirror, “Please stop asking me that. Have we ever gone home and not had a snack? Do I not give you a snack every single day when we get home from school? Why do you keep asking?” 

He stared out the window and shrugged. 

“I don’t know,” he said, “I’m just hungry.”

I wanted to shake him that day. Hello! I’m your mom! How many thousands of times have I fed you? Do you seriously think you’ll ever go hungry on my watch?

When the disciples recall Jesus’ miracles back to him, he asks, “Do you not yet understand?”

Hello! I am the Bread of Life! Do you honestly doubt my power to sustain you? To provide for you? Where is your faith? Do you still not understand who I Am?

***

It’s easy for me to smirk at the disciple’s forgetfulness and lack of understanding. 

And yet—how many times have I held a blank page in my hands as if it were a single loaf of bread? How many times have I panicked over the lack of words, the lack of ideas, the lack of inspiration flowing through my mind? How often have I turned inward looking for answers, instead of turning to Him? 

The disciples saw Jesus feed thousands of people with a dozen loaves, and immediately assumed He couldn’t, or wouldn’t, do the same for them. I could give my son a snack every day for 58 days straight and on day 59 he would still ask, unsure if provision would be offered. 

This seems crazy and frustrating to me until I get real honest with myself. How many times have I done the same with my writing? How often do I forget about all the times God has met me on the page? How often do I forget the words He’s multiplied? The ideas that have spilled out into overflow, how much has been left over? 

Last week, in the middle of an epic writing tantrum, I slammed my laptop shut in frustration and picked up another Julia Cameron book instead. I cracked it open and landed on this line:

“Writing is about getting something down, not thinking something up.”

That sentence rattled me. I underlined each word, read it back three times.

Writing is about getting something down, not thinking something up. Writing is about more listening, less speaking. Writing is about trusting God as my creative source, not trying to be my own. Writing is about becoming the instrument—the vessel in which invisible grace is made visible. Is this not kingdom work? The art of documenting love and joy and mercy this side of Heaven? The reverence of holding whatever God puts in front of you and telling the world about it? Giving an account of the hope that exists in you?

And if I really, truly believe that, why do I still panic every single time I sit down in front of a blank page? When am I going to quit looking at it like a single loaf of bread?

God will provide.
Our job is to listen to how.

Last week I confessed to God I was frustrated with my writing and He led me to Mark, chapter 8. These words you’re reading here came out easily, like a loose tooth you barely had to tug. The morning I worked on it—the same day I was due to turn in writing to my accountability group—two ladybugs met me in the backyard. 

These words you’re reading here are a sliver of evidence of the remarkable grace flooding my unremarkable life. These words you’re reading here are a very real answer to a seemingly insignificant prayer. I tried to put language to it, preserve it, and now I’m letting it sail.

This is what God wanted me to get down. 
I certainly didn’t think it up.