Feeling called to my vocation

During a lovely chat with like-minded friends this afternoon, I was hit hard but kindly with the sense that telling stories is truly my destined.... It's not a job and I used called in the title. It's my manner of using a God-given skill to touch as many hearts as its supposed to.

Not that lately I've been pondering why I write or its intended audience. Sometimes the pings on our hearts and souls are merely to remind us then and there what we're doing that might seem unimportant to us or others does carry weight, have meaning, own a purpose. And to know that within my soul meant a lot to me, means much right now, why I'm typing this entry.

I don't know if it's related to the story I'm revising, but certainly The Deadfern Miracles possesses a deeper layer than the tagline I came up with yesterday: A love story about miracles, marriages, best friends, second chances, and grace. Grace figures heavily, yet receives last billing. That's probably because this novel won't be given the genre of Christian Fiction, rather Women's Fiction. Why? Because the Christianity aspect of the story is that of people to whom Christ has previously not mattered. This is NOT clean and wholesome, though it's not down and dirty either. Lol.

It's a novel about a group of late forty and early fifty-somethings who encounter miracles, God, and immense life changes. And a couple of twenty-somethings just to mix it up. As if this story required more mixing, lol again.

Maybe I'm feeling feisty due to how Jesus Christ has been co-opted by a rather cruel government. That Jesus is as greedy, self-serving, callous, and prone to untruths as those who currently rule American politics. I ache deeply for how God's goodness is trampled by those whose actions carry no shred of Christ's cross, no apparent awareness of his teachings, or his love. Not that I wrote Deadfern as some kind of treatise or religious apologetic. I wrote it because of a miraculous gift proffered to a hemorrhaging woman who knew if she merely touched the fringe of Jesus' cloak she would be healed. I wrote it because The Spirit of Truth pressed into my heart and head a plot about Kim and Sailor living in Southern Humboldt County, all their friends and their tales of woe and small triumphs. I wrote it conscious of love and grace, and reading through it the last few days, I was made aware of the treasure I possess in being able to write fiction, and then today, WHAM! That crafting novels is my vocation, my calling, my way of serving Christ. What a truly precious gift it is.

Previously that section of fence was overrun by weeds. Easy for the hens to pop out, smart chickies!

Anyways, that's the latest here. Oh, we found a large gaping space in the run where the hens have been escaping. Facepalm, though now it's fixed. A little embarrassing not to have noticed it sooner, also blessed that no predatory critters found it either, ahem. It was well camouflaged by greenery that as soon as my husband hacked that away, well....

Hopefully this is the end of hens going their own ways.

 

Now it's mended, with a log in front of it to make certain it stays that way. Sometimes our efforts are concealed, and we slip in and out seemingly unnoticed. Yet those efforts, be that of escape or escapism, are hedged by mindfulness of one who loves us, cares for us, seeks our best. In my fiction, I hope that heavenly love emerges, I wish peace to exude, I desire kindness and joy and healing to reign. I'm reminded of Jeremiah 17:7-8:

Blessed are those who trust in the LORD, whose trust is the LORD. They shall be like a tree planted by water, sending out its roots by the stream. It shall not fear when heat comes, and its leaves shall stay green; in the year of drought it is not anxious, and it does not cease to bear fruit.

Have a peaceful rest of the week everyone.