Do you ever catch a glimpse of your faith–that wee mustard seed, dwarfed in the palm of God’s hand? Recently, a peek at my faith meter, raised a question: Do I truly believe God longs to give me the desires of my heart?
Before I explain, I have a couple of disclaimers.
First, no Catholics were harmed in the making of this blog.
Second, I am NOT dissing the Pope. The Pope in my story is a fictionalized Alejandro VI. Furthermore, he’s not the joke, I am.
My husband and I were watching the episode of The Borgias when the actor, (remember not real), wins the knavish battle to be named Pope. The secret handwritten ballots, gained through threats, bribes and murder, are counted. The room stills. Straining to reflect indifference, the senior Cardinal, announces, Rodrigo Borgia as the Pope.
I’m not Catholic, yet I suspect a proper Pope-like response would emit a humble character. Instead, Rodrigo (remember fictionalized), leaps up, just short of doing a somersault, yelling–
“I’m the Pope!”
Not once but thrice. Then, as if slapped by an angel, (oops), he apologizes, justifying his outburst with–
“Wanting it so much…”
After the belly laugh, I got to thinking. I understood how Rodrigo felt. I get “Wanting it so much…” I have something in common with him. Not wanting to be Pope… bad hat, too much responsibility, but there is something I want… a lot. To be an author. Not to the point of threats, bribes or murder, but I’ve been known to whine a little.
Is that bad? Am I Alejandro’s evil twin? Lusting after my version of Popedom?
Displeasing God with that character would break my heart. A thorough motive evaluation was clearly a must. Unqualified to conduct an unbiased test, I consulted with the only One who knows the essence of my soul. Through this process of prayer and contemplation, I scrutinized my desire to be published and read.
I pondered my childhood dream to be a popular author. I was known for toting stacks of Mark Twain books, and making paperbacks out of notebook paper with my name scribbled on the cover. So what? I also tap danced and choreographed free-style ballet, with no help from training or talent. The thing is, I didn’t read much Twain, and the homemade books were filled with squiggles, not words. I didn’t care enough to be an author, nor a stomping ballerina, to work for either dream. desires
This is different. In the past two years I’ve written two books. Not in a “hobby” spirit, like taking something naturally lovely and spraying it gold because I have time to watch the paint dry. No. My writing took place while brushing my teeth, folding laundry, and earning a needed income from our home business. When I woke at night, I prayed for direction, ideas and words. Whether chopping carrots, schmoozing a customer, dusting, or cleaning toothpaste off the keyboard, I was writing, albeit, sometimes in my head. Often, I would share with my husband–
“Sandy, I don’t think I could stop writing if I wanted to.”
What changed? desires
What happened to the lackadaisical little girl dreaming greatness would fall on her head with no effort on her part? If you’re thinking it’s maturity, I’d argue a good case. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve stacked up plenty of biological eons without even breaking a sweat. As an expert collector of time, I guarantee, years do not always reap patience and perseverance.
Yet, one day, I’m driven to write no matter what. desires
What’s up with that? Magical writing elves who nest in your brain poking you with quills all night?
Is my motive to be an author like the pipe dreams of a child. Or worse, like Alejandro’s hunger for power?
It’s true, my heart’s desire is to be an author. That would be pretty cool. I admit. But it isn’t enough to chain myself to the keyboard and make it happen. The catalyst that squeezes the words from my heart and guts? desires
A reason for the words. At first I wanted to entertain, provide a chuckle, pique the readers interest in God. That fueled the first book. With its completion, I bored quickly with the getting published part, (see I told you biological years don’t equal maturity).
Needing motivation, I sought a bigger purpose. Thus, the second book sprouted. From the first word, I was pulled forward, as if by a truck wench cranked by the thought of helping my readers see God’s true heart for them. If they could read our story of self-inflicted struggle, witness our mistakes, smell our arrogance, even get annoyed with us, wouldn’t they also see, taste, smell and breathe-in God’s bounty of grace? As they witness His love for us in spite of ourselves, won’t they see how much He loves us? How much He loves them?
In conclusion I understand, it’s God’s way to bless us with the desires of our heart. It’s okay to want something. I’m not bad, like the fictional wannebe Pope. God is not a single dimension. He knows our motives, our character, our desires. He is a super natural, mighty Lord, thus the omnipotent tag.
Is it just me, or do you too, run random motive checks?
Read a sample chapter of our upcoming book, “In Spite of Us – Stalked by a Loving God.”