On Purpose

 The north has fallen on the south tonight. My hands were so cold unlocking my front door the bones in my fingers ached. This caused me to sit and ponder them as I often do...because they are magnificent.
 When I was in high school my best friend Cici was obsessed with my hands. She is not the first artist who has drawn them and I hope she will not be the last. I love charcoal drawings of my hands. Call it vanity but I find them entirely perfect. God gave me functioning members to support my craft. I do not take this lightly.
 In 2012 my grandmother lost her hands to carpel tunnel. After forty plus years of being a phenomenal seamstress her career ended. In 2013 she died of a broken heart. I strongly believe this created such an identity crisis in her that it physically took her life. Losing her catapulted me down a tormented creative journey where I was forced to grapple with who I would be if I too lost my hands.
 During my senior year of bible college a missionary came and spoke on Dietrich Bonhoeffer's prison prayers. Bonhoeffer was a German martyr who opposed Hitler's reign and was sentenced to prison where he was brutally tortured. From his cell he would pray unceasingly and witness to other prisoners. Though I have not read Bonhoeffer's biography I vaguely remember the words of the man speaking on him. "No matter how brutally beaten or tortured, Bonhoeffer still had his prayers. That is something that satan could never steal from him."
 I think my grandmother did not know what it means to be a child of God. I also do not believe she comprehended what it means to be a creative. Thimbles or no thimbles, machine or no machine, my grandmother was (from birth) a seamstress. My grandmother was (from birth) a creative. My visions, wild imagination and zealous heart are something the enemy has no power over. I am an artist and a writer no matter how sick his schemes. Art is the way in which I perceive the world.
 My dear friend Sissy is in a tumultuous grieving period over her music. She recently confided in me about feeling paralyzed. For the first time in her life she's not creating every day.
 Enter identity crisis.
 Sissy, I know this feels.
 I have been there. And I promise you...it all goes back to identity.
 We wrestle. We grieve. We grow. We reach new capacities of understanding.

 Back when I was drinking my own urine, I used to be Jade the Writer. In my pride I was the only writer who mattered. I was better than everyone else, more talented than everyone else, jealous of everyone else and the only person on the face of the earth who knew my craft. I was the crafter (or so I thought).
 Then I received a radical vision from the Lord and God told me to surrender my voice. I was left without words for fifteen months. In that fifteen months I was presented with a choice. I could be a slave to my own devices or I could choose to follow God. So I chose Jesus and He delivered me into the past time of painting (something I hated and resented but would quell my creative while I was in "time out").
 Then He called me Daughter.
 And I soon began to understand that creativity can only come from the hand of the creator. It is only because He is that I have the capacity to sharpen my sword. In this was a call to responsibility to be a better steward of my talents.
 So, I stopped drinking my own urine. What I mean by this is I stopped turning to my own well to be the source of my creativity. I began to rely solely on the Lord. And in December God gave me my voice back. I thought I would never write again. I was wrong. But my pen name has changed. I am no longer Jade the Writer.
 I am Daughter. I am Flora the House Builder. I am a child of God who was given the gift of words. And I use my gifts for the Kingdom now (and yes, also sometimes for sex poems...but for the Kingdom primarily) and Jesus shows up despite my grammatical errors and crippling self doubt.
 Today, I was caught up in old bullshit...because my creative is mad and starving. So I fell on my face after church and started weeping to God for relief.
 "Jesus, Jesus. What is my purpose? I want to write so badly. I want to do art so badly. Jesus, Jesus. None of this is working out. Please save me from my own passions and ambition. It hurts so badly, God. None of this is coming to fruition. Speak, Spirit."

 Then God said:

"Daughter, you are KNOWN. I know you in the deep spaces, far deeper than any past lover or any best friend. I created you. I have numbered the hairs on your head. I know your passions because I breathed your passions. I know every sick space in your body, your spirit and your mind. I know all the things you've done and all the things you will ever think, say and do. You will do well to remember I know what you need because I created your needs. Luke 11:11. I came to set you free. I will not give you a snake if you ask for a fish, furthermore I will reward your pursuits two-fold if you trust in me. The righteous have never been forsaken. Nor will you. If the need is there, lay down your pride and ask me. Command fruition in my name. Stand strong in the promise of your inheritance. Be fervent in prayer and have confidence in the journey I have laid out for you. You will not go hungry or thirsty in any capacity. You will live in abundance. Put aside your fear and trust me. If you ask me for what you need, you will receive it."

 I am known. This is my purpose.
 And because I am a badass, sword-weilding child of God I get the keys to the kingdom and the authority to fight on the behalf of my creator with my words. And this is THE miracle. My purpose is to love the Lord with all my heart, my soul and my strength. Though pain comes, fruit will also come as I reap my sowings. So I will seek first the Kingdom and fight for my God, my life and my passions like a rabid, hungry dog. And I will not give up until I see the glory of the Lord that is promised to me.

 I will live my life
 On purpose.