This is not the article I wanted to write, I wanted to intentionally steer from hot button topics like religion and politics until later. I  ought to stay from controversial topics until a few more articles are published, and my blog starts to take off, but when a person is called to something it is an undeniable feeling. It takes on a consciousness of its own, consumes waking thoughts, and burns in the fiber of one’s being. I am called to write this piece; if I miss my calling will it come back around, or be forever changed?   

Last week I had an embroidery business, but I’ve been feeling that there is too much me involved, and perhaps this is not God’s calling on my life.  I’ve been praying that God would sell the commercial machine to the right person, at the right time, at the right price.  Last week that prayer was answered when a man came and put the exact right amount of cash in my hand, and drove away with my machine.  What of the three years of effort that went into that business?  Was it misdirected?  What happens to the dream?  Did it die, or has it manifested into something new?  

Lyrics from Xandria’s “The Dream is Still Alive” come to mind:

We have come a long way

Through rain and the dust of time

Times full of wonders

Full of secret signs

 

Father, help me read your signs.

I am passionate about sewing.  I glow at the “Mommy made this,” creations my girls wear. Quilting projects produce warmth, and embroidered creations are highly desirable, but I relish in writing talents too.  As a young child I developed a zeal for creative writing.  In high school friends signed my yearbook that I was going to be a famous author someday and look them up when I publish my first book. In college English and various forms of writing were my study.  Recently doors have opened that make it possible for writing to become a bright spot in my life again.  Why did I turn away from something that held the desire of my heart?  Unfortunately the gift was not something I was allowed to freely pursue.  It was mistreated, forced to wear impure masks, so I turned away from it, crumpled it like a poorly written storyline, wadded it into a ball, and crushed it under my heel with an extra twist for good measure.  The damage was done, the resurrection impossible.  This dream was dead, so why does the writer in me still exist?  How does it live again, and why is it dancing across the keyboard through my fingers as I type? Doors are opening to make writing possible; should I walk through them? The prayer went like this, “Dear Lord, If I am to write again, sell that machine to the right person.  I’ll shut down the sewing business and pursue writing.” God, if this is the calling on my life how do you plan to use it now? The dream is alive … persecuted, but not forsaken, struck down, but not destroyed (2 Corinthians 4:9).

Xandria says it like this:

Now it’s time for the future

We left our past behind

All the battles are over

But the dream is still alive

Writing has your favor, and increases my heartbeat. When your will and my calling become one your kingdom is glorified.  I accept the risk, and criticism for shutting the door on embroidery, but I pray that you open the windows and teach me to fly.  You are the Potter, I am pliable, mold me as the work of your hands.   

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