Enough?

Lately I have been overwhelmed with big picture life decisions. I feel like I just got finished making college decisions and now I have to make them all over again. I was walking home from class in the rain yesterday with too many ideas for words rolling around in my head. In that moment I felt that I could keep writing forever and never succeed in capturing them all on paper. It leaves me with a question that is haunting me:

If all I ever do with my life is write, will that be enough?

I’ve been plagued by this question for weeks, sometimes in a different form. How much of my identity is meant to be intertwined with writing? Who am I? I want God to tell me. What does He want from my life? When I dream, when I plan, am I building a box for myself that is too big or too small? Am I building a box for God, or am I allowing Him to break into a world I never could have imagined just a few months ago?

What if I did write forever? What if my life never encompassed anything else? Would that be meaningful enough? Enough for who?

I know my writing is spiritual, that God is leading me with words, through words, towards words. But sometimes I feel that it is not spiritual enough, like there are secular and sacred boxes and my writing is stuck in between, like it adds to the kingdom but I need to contribute something else to lead a fully purposeful life. I feel like it is not enough.

Enough for who?
Enough for me?
Enough for others?
Enough for the church?
Enough for God?

In the rain I found the truth. I feel like I owe God something more.

But I don’t. Because of His grace I don’t owe Him anything apart from my love. And that is the one thing that has been harder to give Him of late. I’m so caught up in trying to plan a life that matters that I can’t rest in His love, the one thing that is sure to make my life count the most.

I can love Him and write. Then it won’t matter if all I ever do is write. It won’t matter if I never impress another soul, never leave a name people will remember etched on a tombstone when I breathe my last. I’m starting to believe, but I haven’t found the end of this truth yet. It is telling me I don’t have to figure out the future. I don’t have to write the end before the beginning. I just have to love. Love and write. Write my way into the middle of a story. I thought my story was about tomorrow, but the title is slowly revealing itself: A story called Today.