The Choice
Photo by Mounzer Awad on Unsplash
By Hestia Edwards
“You’re not living in reality,” my dad would say. “Stop creating stories and do something productive.” Whenever he said this, I thought I was at fault. He’s my father; he should know best. Even though I was a responsible college student, apparently story-crafting in my spare time was a waste. Perhaps, because my father did not condone it, and he’s a Christian, then what he believes is more important than my inclinations. Perhaps because he was my authority figure, his view of what God wanted always came before mine. My view of God must have been mistaken, my faith must have been faulty, for surely if we prayed to the same God, then we would have similar views on how I should live my life, wouldn’t we?
The Struggle
I began to hate my inclination, my desire to create stories. Yet no matter how much I prayed for this “sin”, this temptation to go away, God never granted my request. I often offered my creativity on the altar, saying “If you want me to give this up, please take it Lord.” I offered it again and again, hoping the current attempt would remove my creative urge. If my dad saw it as a sin, then I had to purge it.
Yet the interest never went away. I felt so conflicted and guilty: if my dad said this is bad, then why wouldn’t God remove this inclination? I thought if a temptation proved too strong, why wouldn’t God help me? Is this what the Christian walk is about—fighting against a desire with all of my energy and mental strength? If this was such a struggle, it must be the reflection on my weak faith. Perhaps, my faith was nonexistent.
But in denying myself the permission to craft stories and draw characters, I felt my soul was tearing in half. When I deny myself time to draw a character, or when I avoid typing a story, something in me feels starved. Something inside feels suffocated. I tried to do all of the normal Christian things: pray more, read my Bible more, do more church activities, yet nothing eased the void. In denying my creativity, I felt I was killing myself.
Imagine my astonishment when I began reading Dallas Willard’s Hearing God: “…Nothing is more central to the practical life of the Christian than confidence in God’s individual dealings with each person.” Throughout its pages, I began to consider that perhaps I did have a faith, that God does speak to me, and that—dare I hope—my creative inclinations were not sinful, but how he made me?
Following Where God Leads
Still, I felt conflicted; how could two Christians have two very different views? I still do not know the answer to that. I saw a choice, however: I could try my best to conform to my dad’s ideals and deny my deepest desires, or I could choose the creative life—and perhaps the life God intended for me. It was a difficult choice; I wanted my dad’s approval. I had tried so hard to win his approval, but even when I thought I did “everything right”, he could always find something new to criticize. I also read the words of Jesus from Matthew 10:37 (ESV): “Whoever loves father or mother more than me is not worthy of me, and whoever loves son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me.” If I understand this correctly, does this mean that choosing what my dad wants rather than accepting my role that God gave me—that would mean I loved my dad more than I loved God?
I made my choice: I would follow my own faith, and see where God led me. I decided to take risks, and opportunities have brought me to the opposite side of the country. Slowly my interactions with my dad have decreased, and slowly I have accepted God’s role for me. Acceptance has been hard: mentally acknowledging that story-crafting is not a sin and actually believing it are two different things. It has been a long journey, and I’m sure there are more roads ahead, but only in the last few months could I embrace my creative inclinations. If I find myself busy and feel a void in my heart, I ask myself, “Have I spent time with God? Okay, have I drawn anything lately? No? Well, that’s why I feel off.”
Recently I reread 1 Corinthians chapter 12, about how each part of the body has a different place and function in the church. This makes me wonder about the unique ways God has made each of us: maybe God gave each of us different skills and inclinations? Perhaps he made us for specific roles, and—dare I hope—those roles are what our souls desire most to perform? With these thoughts, I can create stories without guilt, but with thanksgiving and pure enjoyment.
Hestia Edwards works as a medical technologist in a small hospital outside of Boston. In her spare time, she is studying the Japanese language, drawing comics, and working on her website www.atannan.com.