I have been in this place before.
Or, at least, places like it.
The halls are long and narrow.
The pictures austere compositions.
And the acoustics echo lonely heel clicks as I wander the cold square tiles.
I come to places like this when spirits sag, excessive words grow empty, or I honestly wonder what good l am actually doing.
Oh, but this isn’t necessarily the same as in the past.
It doesn’t feel like the usual precursor to a depressive episode.
Nor the drag of a lowering self-esteem.
Or even the melancholy I used to experience when I’d write my heart out and no one but the crickets were there to receive it.
No… rather, it is a deeper pondering of what I’m saying, whether it truly lines up with what God wants me to say, and how to proceed with it, especially when the listeners just don’t seem to be there.
I have to wonder if the Old Testament prophets had these moments.
Did they ever fear their messages were useless, or would be without an audience?
Not to mention did the thought of should there even be a desire for an audience ever enter in?
When does it become vanity, for example?
Well, I’m fairly sure they wanted someone to hear them in their lonely existence. I can’t imagine just how hard it was to deliver the messages they did to a largely hard-hearted nation.
I don’t exactly deal with that on the level they did, even with the state of our nation.
But, in order to share Jesus with others, I suppose I should hope someone is out there reading.
And to feel a camaraderie with my brothers and sisters in Christ here, there is nothing wrong with a desire for conversation through this avenue.
After all, He did call me back to blogging for the nth time in my stubborn little life.
It can’t be for nothing.
Yet, looking around here, I do have to ask God what this is all for?
I really do. I feel like one of those Old Testament prophets. Not that I could ever, ever presume to be on that level…
But, in that sense of feeling like I’m doing nothing more than shouting into a vacuum, I relate.
For the nth time in my blogging life, no less.
When will it not feel this way? Will it ever not feel this way?
Oh, not that I’m really torn up over it anymore. Too aware of how some of my own choices have affected my writing ventures for that.
But, Lord, really, isn’t it a waste of time, always asking me to write for…
Well, for next to no one?!
Nothing but my breathing in this skinny corridor answers for a moment.
And, then, comes the reminder right between the eyes:
Never. God says. There’s no waste where My glory is lifted high. No vacuums where higher purpose prevails.
And your purpose?
Like those who came before you, to take the words I’ve planted within you and give them back to Me.
Beyond that, what I do with them isn’t your concern.
Ah. That knocks the wind right out of me. I stop all the pacing down these eerily silent halls, arrested suddenly by the remembrance I am hardly alone in them.
Those seemingly austere pictures?
Portraits of those gone before, those who wrote what He directed without ever fully seeing the fruition of them.
And, more than that, He meets me there in the midst of it all, listening even when no one else seems to.