I always knew I liked writing. Next to being a missionary, a children’s book author was my childhood ambition from first grade onwards. Today, I remembered that vision.
At the moment I’m reading Just David by Eleanor H. Porter, the same author as Pollyanna. It’s one of those orphan-changes-the-community stories, very powerful and quite touching. A little boy, with his violin, teaches many to see beauty they never had noticed before. Yet as I sat in English Literacy class today, I hadn’t read that yet. We were talking about Independent Reading, the last of our teaching-reading continuum. And we jumped into discussing the art of Silent Reading.
Oh, and something inside of my heart jerked fervently as I vividly remembered those soft, quiet afternoons in primary school. We disappeared into worlds not our own. Novels encapsulated me, and I tried to pull out what I learned into my real life. Silent reading times were my training ground for my writing, where I learned the subtleties of the English language. My teachers built upon this passion, my mother told me to read and read and read.
Then, all I can say is, high school happened. Books distracted me from homework. Therefore my mother had to help me regulate my book-reading, and time-manage. Stories became distant friends, as I learned to write about high school life. I encountered many classmates who had a severe dislike of reading, and out of empathy and fear, I didn’t want to be seen as one who actually enjoyed it.
Yet now, here I am in university, doing a study on a children’s book author. I’m reading three books I so absolutely adore. I have enjoyed this assignment so much, in fact, that I had to prioritize other assignments like maths planning or else they’d be ignored. My emotional reaction must connect to something deeper inside of me. Something made to write, to communicate, to dream. Something that I didn’t put in myself…
“If when I am able to discover something which has baffled others,
I forget Him who revealeth the deep and secret things,
and knoweth what is in the darkness and showeth it to us;
if I forget that it was He who granted that ray of light to His most unworthy servant,
then I know nothing of Calvary love.”
-Amy Carmichael, missionary
This quote has cut me to the core. What would be released if we knew more of Christ’s self-sacrificing love? What would we dream about? What would we do? The Father grants us revelation, He shows us things that amaze others, and gives us the ability to communicate it. It’s not my skills.I must remember it is He who granted the rays to me in the first place. Writers should be carriers of light, and they are not producers of light.
As the character David remarked in the story,
“[Father] said every instrument was needed in the great Orchestra of Life; and that I was one, you know, even if I was only a little boy. And he said if I kept still and didn’t do my part, the harmony wouldn’t be complete…”
May I not take pride in where God’s brought me, nor be afraid of where He’s called me to be.
