Some people knit with yarn. I knit with words. In my decades of writing I’ve spent countless hours at my computer, knitting columns, stories, articles and books. But one day I carelessly left them out for the digital cat to find.
My computer needed a rebuild, so I backed up my files on two external hard drives - or so I thought. But when I went to recover them, the last two years had inexplicably vanished.
I pretended it didn’t matter. But as the days ground on, the nebulous shape of lost words drifted back. Letters. Journals. Scripture studies. Stories I’d begun for the grandbeans. Really lousy attempts at fiction. Mediocre poetry. Song lyrics. Messages. Transcripts of my Simple Words radio spots.
Each time I grasped for some now-absent writing, I winced. When I went to check my journal to use it as fodder for an article or column, it cut. When I needed to refer to a letter, it stung. And when came time to edit something I’d begun earlier, it sliced.
I swung from anger at myself to resignation, and finally to a sense of gaping wonder at my stupidity. “How could I have been so DUMB???” I first wondered if the loss was a sign, recalling that only days before, I’d told a friend, “I think I’m going to stop writing. I can’t concentrate like I used to. Life is too busy. I don’t have the long quiet hours I need to be still and reflect.”
She’d sighed. “Kathleen. You didn’t choose to be a writer. God made you a writer. You can’t just stop. That’s not your choice to make.”
Now her words knocked me upside the head. I recalled why, in spite of monumental life interruptions, I still write. Long ago, God stuck his finger in my back, and a pen in my hand. A pen for his use, at his direction, by his inspiration, for his time.
Over the next frustrating weeks, I began to understand that those lost words, some published, mostly not, had already accomplished something necessary. The honing of my craft. The fruitful use of time that could easily have been frittered on less-worthwhile activities. The exercise of discipline. The careful processing of thoughts that otherwise may not have taken place. And just perhaps, a response in the heart of a reader known only by God.
I made peace with the loss and kept knitting words, out of an abiding love for the craft and refreshed resolve to keep following my calling, even when life overwhelms. So when the words returned to me months later, hidden in a drive I hadn’t checked, my gratitude overflowed – not only for the words, but for the lesson I’d learned. It’s one the Preacher reminds me of every time he limps into a pulpit: Our gifts are never our own. Like life, they are fragile. But as long as God gives us ability, we honor him by using those gifts to serve others. Are you?
