I don’t like writing
Though this statement is no longer true (you are after all, reading my blog), for many of my formative 20 years, I DESPISED writing. From scratching out thank you notes to pushing myself through college literary analysis essays, writing was drudgery. Yet, when God plants a seed within you, he finds a way to water and nurture it.
At the age of 19, thanks to a very eccentric writing professor completely unaware of his role in the drama of my life, I heard the song of my soul for the first time. But, just for kicks (before getting to the heart of the matter), lets revisit the humorous drama that was my childhood experience of writing.
Punishing the Papers
From childhood, I’ve dreaded writing. I shoved writing assignments to the bottom of the homework pile, hoping they would rot or magically disappear. Procrastination at its finest. My mom accused me of “punishing the homework”. By putting off the essays, I was treating them like they deserved…vengeance was mine!
The worst part of writing was the works cited page. Getting all those semi-colons, colons, periods, commas, and, for some reason, a money sign, in the right place was a nightmare. APA, MLA, CVS (eh…you get the idea)…they are all different. And this was before writing on computers was a thing. By the time I was finished with my final draft, I was a bit loopy from the White Out.
Revenge of the Wordsiths
Despite, or perhaps because of, the punishment I tried to inflict on those papers (karma), writing had its revenge on me. I won a mandatory essay contest in middle school that propelled me into Honors and then AP English, where writing was once again required (shocker). I despised the papers, but found a way to motivate myself: I would take AP English and History in high school, ace the exams, and then completely avoid all classes that involved the dreaded beast in college.
My AP scores came in–all 5’s! My plan was golden. Then, Loyola offered me a place in their Honors Program, complete with its own cohort of students, great extracurricular opportunities…and a required core curriculum that would not accept AP credit. Sucker that I was, I signed up anyway.
I would open Microsoft Word to complete the latest college essay assignment only to type my name and some cruddy attempt at a title, then walk away. Such logic worked well for me. I had a perfect record in shots made in middle school basketball as well as a perfect record at shooting skeet (both 1 for 1), I’d been to the Empire State Building (Walgreen’s on the ground floor counts!), and I had finished a draft of those papers.
4 years later, diploma in hand, school behind me, I took a job as a math teacher to avoid writing–no more reading, writing, or grading papers. Swish!
Dr. Murray
Dr. Murray, my Honors Writing Seminar professor at Loyola was a man who would have made a great children’s book character–eccentric with a touch of aloof charm and dry humor. I don’t remember much about his class, and what I do remember was kind of weird, though not in a bad way. However, I am forever indebted to him for giving me back the joy of writing. In his class, there were many assignments that I did my best to punish. However, I also wrote my first personal narrative. It is the only college writing assignment I ever physically held on to. I remember distinctly thinking, “That’s the first writing assignment I’ve ever enjoyed. Writing can be FUN?” Because of him, the door opened for written expression to be an expression of the heart and soulful.
There’s a song that’s inside of my soul…
Encounters of the Third Kind
If my soul lives somewhere in my skull (I don’t think it does–but just bear with me), then there’s a song in it. For the past couple of weeks, whenever I go for a jog (and only when I jog), I hear a tiny rattling at the lower back of my head–right above my neck. It’s not my necklace, or hat, or hair accessories (I checked). It sounds like a small pebble bouncing around back there. I would see a doctor, but if my experience with the strange noise in my previously owned Honda Civic is any indication, the search will be futile.
Me: "I'm hearing a sound at the back of my head, but only when I run." Doctor: "Oh, can you reproduce it?" Me: "Yeah, sure, put your ear right about there and try to keep up..."
Eventually, whatever is causing the noise or hearing sensation (my bet is on ear wax) will fall out or shift into a nicer spot and the sound will go away. I’m not terribly concerned, but if it starts sounding like a Fisher Price corn popper at any point, I’ll be sure to investigate further.
As a result of the information contained in the paragraphs that follow, there’s also an off chance it’s some sort of alien device implanted at the base of my skull. If that’s the case though, the aliens have a weird fascination with Christian topics and do a very poor job of securing their devices inside their victims.
I didn’t write this
Most of what you read, whether on this blog, or in my book (At the Edge of the Jordan Publication early fall 2021), I cannot claim to have written. I take credit for all the bad parts–the corny jokes and poor phrasings. I’ll even take credit for an occasional quality sentence. However, the heart of what I write is not mine.
Take this morning. Since I’ve been focused primarily on book edits this week, I planned on using one of my mostly finished blog posts from several months back. Add pictures, a few bad jokes, post complete. However, as I brushed my teeth this morning, the Holy Spirit (or the aliens–one of the two) dumped almost the entirety of the content of the post you are reading into my mind in the span of 30 seconds.
This is true of other blog posts. In most situations, I don’t actively think about what to write. I just wake up one day with a nearly formed blog post in my mind. This is true for the book as well. The basic idea for the book was mine (I think), but most of the content was sourced elsewhere (it has 15 pages of endnotes), came from my husband (he’s a brilliant writer and blogger), or hit me over the head like the shampoo bottle in the shower.
The songs of the angels
My book is a narrative non-fiction work, or research-based fiction (it’s an odd piece) on near death experiences. In heaven, many experiencers speak of the songs of angels and/or souls close to God. One individual noted that these beings can’t help but sing. They are overcome by God’s glory and the song simply pours out of them.
I suppose this is an analogy of what happens when I write–the heart of the content fills my being and I cannot help but write.
I give you my apathy
Between moments of what I suspect is Spirit-inspired writing, there is much “work” that goes into the process, whether the finished product is a blog post, YouTube meditation, or chapter in the book. I tire and get burnt out, just like anyone else. Just this week, I reached that point and was about to push the publication date for the book back a month, maybe two. My content editor (whom I am married to) had lovingly shredded two of the uninspired middle chapters. Lacking inspiration and overwhelmed by the amount of work to be done, I considered that a bit more time spent in meditation over the next two weeks might be more beneficial than book editing.
God had other plans.
Just as I was about to go announce my decision to my husband, my phone buzzed. Not one, but two incoming messages–both delayed replies (a week after my request went out) from individuals ready to read and give feedback on the final draft. One was from a published author who had experienced an NDE herself. I was not about to put her off two months. I set the phone down in submission to God and looked up: “Message received.”
At the top of my lungs…I’m giving it back
That night after dinner, a mere two hours after receiving those messages, our family was listening to “tunes” together in our sunroom. We each take turns making requests and everything from “Flying Bum” to Metallica to Big Daddy Weave enters the rotation. Our oldest requested “that song that Mommy likes so much that she says is super deep”. It had been months since I had played the song for him, but I was touched that he remembered and enjoyed the piece–Switchfoot’s “Only Hope”.
My husband obliged, and the music (my husband has a killer set of speakers from his college days) and words poured over me. I closed my eyes and received the gift. As I listened, the missing piece for the chapters I was struggling with came together–the image I needed filling my mind. Even more importantly, my heart warmed as God reminded me of who I am–his alone–and why I write.
I pray that you too would be inspired to find the song in your own soul, and, at the top of your lungs, give it back to God.