Is what I’m doing worthwhile? Yes, you’re using your time and gifts to sow into others.
But are my words making an impact? Yes, though you might not always see them.
But my sphere of influence is so minuscule. Significance is not measured in numbers.
But this journey—changing diapers, going to school, repeating my 8-5 job day in and day out, caring for my parents, doing laundry, investing in this business, imparting to kids, (insert your own)—this matters? Yes. These ordinary, invisible moments are the very ones that make a difference.
Breathing in reassurance, we begin to trust again.
For a little while.
But the longer the waiting drags on, the further away that reassurance drifts.
Maybe you’ve reached a point of forgetting why you even began. The energy you started out with is at the bottom of a drain labeled, delay. When you’re alone, curled up in bed, the silence makes you question whether God’s forgotten you and whether it’s time to let go of a dream that simply costs too much.
I know the feeling of abandonment. Of failure. Of growing weary while waiting to see whether what you’re doing really matters.
But what if success has less to do with an outward result and more to do with obedience? What if your faithfulness to what you’re called to do right here, right now, regardless of the outcome, is the real barometer? What if you sowed in with all your heart for no other goal than to honor God? And what if His smile was enough in return?
Would you keep going, even during the silence? Even when everything about your circumstances looks like failure and pressing on seems illogical? When there’s no recognition or showers of affirmation? Would you sit in an auditorium, listening to a word spoken directly for you, and choose to remain faithful?
Let’s be honest. It’s not easy. Believe me, I know. But can I encourage those of you who’ve been at this journey long enough to have encountered heartache?
The threadbare tips of your boots aren’t scars of failure. They’re marks of testimony. The worn tool in your hand doesn’t bear the disappointment of laboring in vain. It bears the fruit of perseverance. And that silence you hear is not the anthem of defeat. It’s the song of God working in and through your faithfulness.
Hope Through Trust
Do you remember the scene in Lord of the Rings when the people of Rohan have taken refuge at Helms Deep? Sarumon’s army is marching to the gates of this fortress with one focused mission. Total destruction of mankind.
The people—too young, too old, none equipped for the task asked of them—armor up for a battle they know they can’t win. The odds are too steep. They’d be naïve to hope.
“They’re frightened,” Legolas says to Aragorn. “I can see it in their eyes. And they should be. Three hundred against ten thousand! They cannot win this fight. They are all going to die.”
Poor Legolas. He probably gets some flak for being a naysayer here. I mean, let’s be real, there’s no dilly-dallying around it. He flat out calls it what it is. Impossible. It’s as plain as day. There’s only one logical outcome. Failure.
Now, before we throw him in the cave with the women and children, let’s cut him some slack. He’s only saying what everyone else is thinking. The same thing we often say ourselves. “It’s hopeless.”
We stare into an army of odds against us—an enemy commissioned to steal, kill, & destroy—and we confess the obvious. “We cannot win this fight.”
And the truth is, we can’t. Not on our own. We’re too young. Too old. Too underequipped. We’re out numbered. The enemy is too strong. Too skilled. Too ruthless. Why wouldn’t we despair?
But I had forgotten the line that follows Legolas’ confession. While Aragorn suits up for battle, Legolas hands him his sword and says, “We have trusted you this far. You have not led us astray. Forgive me. I was wrong to despair.”
Notice what just happened.
It’s still the night of battle. There’s still a merciless army of epic proportion on their doorstep. They’re still farmers and stable boys. The odds against them haven’t changed. There’s absolutely nothing Legolas can do to prevent the enemy from approaching. Yet, now he is ready and willing to engage in battle.
Why?
Because he trusts his leader. He’s witnessed Aragorn’s faithfulness, skill, leadership, and judgment. And when he reminds himself of this experiential truth, the odds become irrelevant in the shadow of hope.
Maybe, like me, you’re facing some pretty crazy odds and have every logical reason to give in to despair.
Except for one.
You have a leader who is trustworthy. He has never led you astray. He is already suited up for battle and will fight with you in the trenches. The question is, do you trust him enough to follow?
Vision Through Perseverance
We couldn’t pass it up. When would we get this chance again? It was perfect.
Almost.
Free from the demands of the conference, the rest of the day was all ours. I couldn’t get out of the hotel quickly enough. Ah . . . the extensive beauty of San Francisco. A haven of artistry. Tantalizing possibilities. One afternoon. How would we spend it?
Doing what any other two east coast tourists would do, of course. Go on a camera-ready, completely insane escapade to see the sights. Starting with the it-sounded-plausible-at-the-time idea to bike across the Golden Gate Bridge.
I’d been dying to see the Redwoods. I’m talking the starry-eyed, daydreaming kind of dying. We didn’t have the money to take the tour bus to the forest. But, hey, no problem. No money plus starry-eyed ambition equals anything goes. Hence, the bikes.
Since I’d come for a business conference, I obviously didn’t pack appropriate bike gear. The outdoors guru behind the bike rental counter did a once-over at my attire, her gaze stopping at the lack of fitness already glistening on my forehead.
“Um . . . yeah, I don’t think you’re dressed to make the trek. But check it out,” she said, handing me a map. “There’s a small park not far past the bridge where you can see some Redwoods.”
Redwoods. Not far. Sounds good to me.
Seats adjusted. Helmets on. Vision in focus. Off we went.
Now, California has these not-so-little things that we don’t have in Virginia Beach. Hills. You know, those grueling things that light fire to the tops of your thighs. Yeah, those.
Leg muscles whining, we made it to the bridge and stopped to snap a few pictures. Or twenty.
Our compulsion to document the journey nearly got us run over by a local bicyclist who passed us, muttering something that sound like, “Crazy tourists.”
Tourists? Did the florescent green beacon on top of my head give us away? Or maybe it was the fact that we’d been illegally riding on the sidewalks until some more locals upheld their civic duty of pointing out our blunder. But we’d come this far. Screaming obstacles wouldn’t deter us now.
We crossed the bridge and kept going. Against the wind. The decadent scenery trailed behind us. Pavement stretched ahead. No signs. No indication of how much farther we had to go. Just pedals and resistance.
Our lungs and muscles soared past the whining stage, past the temper tantrums, and skidded into full-blown screams of bloody murder. The wind burned our cheeks, grease from the bike chain soiled our jeans, and the endless road overshadowed the vision we started out with.
Is the journey really worth it?
We had a choice. We could turn around. Though, it really wouldn’t be any easier. We might avoid trekking against the wind, but we’d be carrying a burden of regret and disappointment.
So, we pressed forward. Down the straightaway. Around the bends. Through exhaustion and fatigue. Pedal turn after painful pedal turn. Mile after mile. Until we finally reached our destination.
Recognize this journey? It starts out with vibrant expectations. Not far down the road, resistance kicks in. Fatigue stifles. Border patrol hollers. The “not far” sprint turns into a twenty-mile marathon.
<
br /> And somewhere along that nothing-in-sight stretch of sidewalk, you face a crossroads. Keep the vision before you or stare at the pavement. Push through the pain or give into it. Keep going or turn around. The choice is always yours.
I wish I could tell you it won't be much farther. I wish I could promise it's going to get easier. But the truth is, the journey is long and messy. Delays will come. Silence will stifle. Questions will taunt.
But when you hold fast, you know what you find? Faith to believe there’s a way where there seems to be no way. Commitment to remain faithful along the road of in-betweens. Strength to endure when you feel like you’re dying on the inside. Hope to press on. And courage to let go.
Because behind the doubt that taints everything a charcoal gray, there are breathtaking colors waiting for our fingers to create beauty with.
Behind the fears that ground us in place, gripping a sink’s edge, there’s a wave-riding wind waiting for our hands to grasp the feel of freedom.
Behind the pain that backs our dreams into corners, there’s a hope waiting for our hearts to release the life-changing artwork that only comes through vulnerability.
Along the journey of pressing through, you write your story. And I can promise you this much. It’s going to be worth it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Your Story Matters
“How’s your heart?”
“Excuse me?” It wasn’t that I hadn’t heard him. I had. But I was trying to stall.
He smiled with non-expendable patience. “How’s your heart?”
This wasn’t exactly your typical, “How are you?” question to which I could get away with a glossed-over, “Fine.” This was a question requiring honesty. Not just with him, but with myself.
It required examination. Probing. Not-so-fun exploration into the alleyways behind no-trespassing signs.
I could lie. Wear a mask. But why bother? If my voice didn’t give me away, my eyes would.
So, then, what was my honest answer? Worn? True. Heavy? Yes, but still not deep enough. In need of a second wind? Closer. But what did I find when I edged in close enough to listen to my heart?
“Songless.”
You’ve heard me describe calling as the outward expression of the song in your heart. Passion composes the score to which vision writes the lyrics.
Like the instruments in an orchestra, your dreams and life experiences weave notes together with such resonance that those listening can help but be moved by the sound.
But there is another composer. One who’s quite skilled at crafting songs of deception. You know the ones. They play in your mind over and over again, embedding themselves deeper into your spirit until they drown out your heart’s original score. They want nothing more than to see your paintbrush run dry and your strings turn brittle.
What better way to squelch your song than to replace it with another. One that jams all stations on a single looped chorus: “You’re not good enough. You don’t have anything to offer. You’re foolish for dreaming. Who are you kidding? God’s forgotten you.”
I know that chorus too well.
In October 2014, I received a publishing offer for three of my novels. I squealed. I texted all my friends. I doused Facebook with splashes of the news. I squealed some more, reverting to my thirteen-year-old self on the phone with my sister. Yeah, not pretty.
And then sobriety hit. Staring at a decision that could affect my career as an author, this was no time for giddiness to take over. For three weeks, I agonized over whether to accept the offer. I’m talking a carnival-zipper-ride-whiplash kind of back and forth turmoil.
Ultimately, I felt like I was supposed to decline. So, turning down the only offer I had, I submitted, once again, to the unknown. To that fragile posture of waiting. That jagged place torn between hope and fear.
Doubt chimed in with a vengeance. Maybe my story isn’t good enough. Maybe no one will ever hear it. Maybe I should stop pretending that it matters or that it has the chance of making a difference. Maybe I should simply let it go.
When that looped chorus we all wrestle with plays nonstop, little by little, our song grows faint. The ink runs down the sheet music. The paint rinses off the canvas. The lights dim over the stage.
But even in that empty alleyway, where inspiration seeps down the gutters, there’s another song calling forth our own.
A few days after declining the offer, I was in my office listening to music. No contract. No clear vision of how any of this is going to turn out. Courage depleted, I felt like I was holding these frayed pieces of a dream in a grasp I never really had.
And right there—in the middle of all my brokenness—the lyrics from "Destroy" by Worth Dying For sent the very truth I feel called to speak over others' lives colliding into a lack of faith for my own.
“You’re not abandoned. You’re not alone.”
And I felt like God whispered, how can you make that declaration over others in a way that connects and transforms if you don’t first walk through it yourself?
When you experience the turmoil of waiting; when you fall on your face, desperate to know you aren’t abandoned; when you enter that place and choose to keep standing, to keep contending, to keep declaring truth over your life, then your writing won’t simply be words. It’ll be testimony.
Testimony. That’s your calling. The daily moments of offering your heart again and again and again. Amidst the mess. Amidst the failures. Amidst the sacrifices. When you choose to keep investing. To say yes to your assignment. To believe that nothing is wasted. And to trust that God is able to use every frayed piece of your life to sow into another.
Through this brokenness, words scrawl across the page, raw and unfiltered. Paints mix together. Colors run into each other without borders. It may feel disjointed, maybe uncontrolled. No perfect resolutions or immaculate edits.
But it’s here—in the mess—where you write your story. The one you were gifted in every way to tell.
I know it’s tempting to think of calling as some larger-than-life aspiration that only a few are lucky enough to live. It’s easy to think your testimony isn’t worth sharing. Easy to think other people’s stories matter more than yours does.
Look at how many Twitter followers they have, how many speaking engagements they’ve booked, how many books sold, how many degrees secured, how many lives touched. Those people are made for influence.
Yes, yes they are. But so are you.
I can hear the comments already. “But I don’t have the right personality type. I’m not creative. My life’s nothing special. I haven’t written any best sellers or spoken in front of multitudes. I’m just a _____.” Fill in the blank.
“Just a student. Just an employee. Just a mom. Just a wannabe artist. Just a mediocre cook. Just a shoulder people cry on. Just a gabber. Just . . . ordinary.”
Well, the ordinary—the cluttered, everyday moments—are where our stories are written. Taking a step of faith to share those stories with others is what turns the ordinary into extraordinary.
The single mother who works two jobs, yet still finds time to read bedtime stories with her kids.
The student who busses tables after classes and is dead on her feet, but stops by her friend’s dorm room to listen to her heart over coffee.
The grown adult who puts her own life on hold to care for her elderly parents.
The girl who’s been through abuse or a divorce, but finds the courage to start a small group or write a blog to help others walk through the same pain.
See, the story told through a bestselling book isn’t any more significant than the story told through a single handwritten card to someone in need of encouragement. The story broadcasted on the big screen isn’t any more valuable than a heartfelt story shared between two friends at a quiet corner table of a café.
One gift doesn’t outrank another, just as one testimony doesn’t outshine another. Calling isn’t a flamboyant display strutted in front of crowds as a grand spectacle.
> It’s the tearstains on your carpet. The bruised knees from bedside prayers. The word of encouragement shared with a friend. Grace extended and received. Forgiveness offered. The unseen sacrifices. The unsung choices. The risk of rejection. The willingness to be vulnerable.
Calling is the beauty of artistry that comes through the bravery of surrender. Not because we have it all together. Or because we have our emotions in check and life in order. But because we come with shaky knees, white-knuckled grips, frail hearts, and still choose to live the story we were made to share. That faithfulness, sweet one, is a story worth telling.
A Declaration to Speak Over Your Life:
“I’m not only loved, I’m cherished. In my mother’s womb, God knit me together with threads of purpose. I am chosen, accepted, and uniquely designed. I am fully equipped to fulfill my calling. No weapon, scheme, or obstacle can keep me from the promises God has grafted into my heart. He is sufficient, able, and faithful to complete the good work He began in my life. So, I will not give in to fear today. I will not submit to doubt, worry, or despair. Silence, delay, or disappointments will not stop me from thriving in the fullness of who God created me to be. Today, I will flourish in hope. This is my story.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Crystal received her bachelor of arts from Messiah College in PA, married her exact opposite in upstate NY, and earned her master of arts from Regent University in VA, where she currently resides with her husband, David. Crystal writes contemporary new adult fiction fueled by Starbucks’ venti green teas. Connect with her at http://crystal-walton.com for sneak peeks of new releases and other freebies.
Your Story Matters Page 3
