I am most decidedly not driving the bus. I am merely a passenger on this journey that is my life. If I were driving, this would not be the route I would have chosen to take. And, try as I might to get the Driver to make a left at the next light because I think I know a shortcut or a faster way, I am not The Driver. I haven’t always known this and there are times that I still want to take over at the wheel. Usually that just ends up getting me lost on some bumpy road, broken down in the middle of nowhere. Then I end up having to call for road side assistance and wait for the Jesus to get me out of the situation I have gotten myself into. I am convinced that what He wants me to do is simply sit back, take in the scenery as He points it out, learn what I can from my road trip, and revel in the ride. Let the Driver drive. You may ask how I know this. Well…
I have been told dozens of times that I am a good story teller and that I should consider writing a book someday. One person even told me that my writing reminded her of a young Erma Bombeck. Of course that was years ago and now I am sure if we were having that conversation again, she would leave out the young part. I have always loved writing and loved the idea of writing a book, but never really had much to tell except funny short stories about my family life.
While still in the hospital recovering from my illness, several people, upon hearing my survival story, suggested that I should write a book. I had lots of time to think about it and ultimately decided that I did indeed want to write about it. After all, I had asked God to give me a story to tell, and I had promised Him I would tell it. I definitely wanted to write for my own sake. If it turned out to be a book, well, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I wasn’t yet able to go back to work, so there was nothing keeping me from giving it a shot. I climbed up into the driver’s seat, started the bus, and pulled out of the station.
I had come up with an idea of what I thought I wanted to write and how it would be laid out. I sat down one day and wrote a list of topics I wanted to include, stories I felt should be told, and a list of clever chapter titles to keep myself organized as I wrote. In four weeks time, I had written what I determined to be four chapters of my “someday” book. I was driving the bus for all it would go.
What I ended up with was four cute stories, at best. Nothing compelling, nothing life changing, maybe a few laughs or something witty, but definitely lacking in the meat department. After those four chapters, I had nothing. Nada. On top of that, in my weakness from muscle atrophy, my hands shook constantly. The mere task of writing or typing was harder than I expected it to be. I could barely read my own handwriting and I shook too much to type accurately. I felt very defeated and uninspired, so I stopped writing altogether. My proverbial bus was out of gas and had a flat tire.
I decided I needed to focus on my recovery and completely forgot about the idea of writing. Little did I know that in doing so, this was allowing the Bus Driver to get back into the driver’s seat.
When God answered my prayer about giving me a story, He also gave me a task to do. Tell it. I knew this. I knew this. What I also should have known was that He never intended for me to tell it without Him. He is the main character, after all. I am now convinced that this is why my initial four chapters were so lack luster. I set out on my own to do this task, without praying about it, without asking for His direction, and He sat back and watched me try to drive the bus. Free will. Hmph. When I finally threw my hands up in defeat and announced rather loudly that “I can’t do this!” that is when He said “No, you can’t, but I can.” Well, okay then.
Just when I had decided to scrap the whole idea of a book, inspiration started to flow like water from a spring. The bus was once again pulling out of the station, first stop: Meat department.
From that moment on, God was writing the book. I was merely writing transcript like a court stenographer. I realized that the events I would encounter during my recovery was where the book was to come from; the emotional highs and lows of pure joy, sheer frustration, and yes, even unbridled anger, would all be a part of the story. If I have learned anything in the past year of attempting to write, it is this: When God says write, I write. Even if He wakes me up at 2 am from a sound sleep, I write. When He says “Write about this” I write about it. Sometimes I don’t even know why I am writing about the subject until I reach the end of a session and then read it back to myself and say “Whoa. Where did that come from?” Then and only then, it makes perfect sense. The words flow in such a way that I know they are not coming from me.
I started this blog only a few days ago, with the intention of telling my story in chronological order about an illness I dealt with one year ago, yesterday. Since then, yes, since yesterday, there have been three key events that have taken over my foremost thoughts and I am cannot wrap my mind around anything else. Try as I might to tell this story in chronological order, you may as well know right now, it’s not going to happen. Nope. He wants me to tell it in His perfect timing.
Chronological order makes sense to me, it is what I thought I should do. Can you hear my voice from the second row of the bus? “Driver, turn left at the next light, I know a faster way.” Thank God I am a life time card carrying member of The Savior’s Road Side Assistance Club.
Have you signed up yet? It’s free.
Until next time,
Lisa
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