Previous Challenge Entry (Level 3 - Advanced)
Topic: Blessed (10/11/12)
TITLE: Jars of Hope
By Lori Dixon
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I know this to be true because I’ve heard His still small voice whispering to me from behind the expired mayo and forgotten pickle jar many times. And, wow, when he gives me those frigid messages, they are so cool!
The first time He nudged me this way was back in 2000. I remember tossing and turning, unable to sleep and feeling so unhappy. My unhappiness was served with a whole bunch of guilt as I knew I should be thankful for all His blessings. Why wasn’t it enough? Why did I feel so unfulfilled? So . . . blank?
When in despair, I look for chocolate. Flinging my legs out of bed, I made my way to the fridge. Digging around the grimy jars, I began to seek the Lord as well.
‘Who am I, Lord? What have you called me to do? What is my purpose beyond the home?’ Saying the words out loud brought me to my knees.
‘Why do I feel so . . . so . . . so incomplete?’ I had fulfilled most of my dreams. I bought a house and gave birth to two beautiful, healthy children. What was next? What did I have to hope for?
Sitting at the kitchen table, mulling through my tears as I sucked on a Nutella-covered spoon, my heart heard,
'Hope for rest'.
Rest. Like a spa day or a holiday. We hadn’t had a real vacation in years.
Looking out the window, I wondered how many other women were awake, crying into their children’s toast spreads.
‘Write about it,’ He said to me.
I began to vibrate with fear and cautious anticipation.
Really? Was I crazy? I had always wanted to be a writer, but . . . really?
Afraid I was about to wake up and find it was all a dream, I slid across the floor, turned on the desktop and with shaking fingers, began to draft a few short columns. My index finger hung above the send button as I debated, for but a moment, before hitting send to our local paper.
Hope Forrest came to life as did the whole not-so-fictional Forrest family: ‘Rain, Ash and Sherwood.
The publisher liked my ‘stuff’ and the rest is history. Weekly, over the next four years, God continued to give me stories.
All because He loves me, wants to bless me and sometimes whispers to me from out behind the nasty mayonnaise jar.
'You are not expired . . . I will do a fresh, good work through you, if you let me.’
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