call of the heart

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My family is sleeping… As they slumber in rest, I often struggle with restlessness. Sometimes when they go to sleep, to relieve ┬ámy mind, I go to the pen and paper to empty out the contents within.

Everyone I know can write, and most of them can spell light years better than me, but I write anyway… For many like me, it is akin to exercising or golfing, something we worry about living without as much as we long to live without.

We are the troubled souls who search for comfort through emotional turmoil within. We reminisce in silence, often regret things that haven’t taken place yet. We see the future and it is good, bad, and full of emotion, with no shortage of unwarranted sorrow.

God has a specific cross each of us are called to bear. A call of the heart if you will. It is His perfect will and the burden is easy, the yoke light. While we know only in His will is where we find rest, peace, and satisfaction, we sometimes buck the will of God like a wild horse.

Like Jonah, some of us run from and are unhappy with the decisions of God. I guess in my case, if I didn’t get old I would have never quit running. Like that wild stallion who finally runs out of steam and fight, worn out by the superior Master, given in after a long fight. And tired…

To release from our hearts and minds the things inside, hopefully to and for the One who resides there, we have to open the doors of those hearts and release the pain in emotion we try to hide, lock away, and pretend doesn’t exist within; the dreaded things that many of us in this life try to keep locked away and buried inside our souls.

For many of us who find that mystical comfort in emotional searching, I think is the care and our opening heart for others; the downtrodden, the weak in spirit, the lost…

The struggle within the hearts of those called to share our thoughts is deep and lifelong. The sense of gratification or satisfaction with words shared and accepted is short lived. The calling of our souls to share thoughts and words becomes like the hunger of our stomachs longing for food.

The satisfaction is temporary. Fleeting… The job is endless. There are only short amounts of time for rest within; the rest that comes after a sentence, paragraph, or chapter. Only to have the pangs like a growling stomach of our conscience yearning for more shortly thereafter.

For those with the desire to write, everything and everyone is scrutinized, looking for the lesson to be shared. Searching the eyes of strangers for their story, in hopes of sharing it with others; the ingredients used to brighten the day of someone we’ll never meet. To satisfy that longing to make a difference in this world. To quiet the groans of our souls that long to be fulfilled in that process.

One of the troubling parts of this internal conflict is not knowing if our time, although not voluntary, is time spent reaching the intent of the one sharing the thoughts. The time and sacrifice unappreciated, or the point of our story missing its mark. Like a stray arrow somehow finding its way back to pierce the heart of the archer.

The only thought worse than that would be the accolades of the world not accompanied with the will of God; words born in the flesh returning void without purpose.

Maybe there is room for one more story about the warm sun giving life to a writer’s voice on a brisk Fall afternoon.

Maybe that cool breeze God blew across the unshaven face was to clean off dejection that lingers in those whiskers. To remind those of us who share, do so for the purpose of His higher calling.

The breeze feels pretty good… I must say…