For the past 13 years, I would put my children to sleep and rush off to my computer, where I’d release all my thoughts of the day into a Word document or, eventually, a Google Doc. A deluge of reflections that had been dammed up in my head throughout a day of teaching, commuting, managing a household, parenting four children during the school year, and running a seasonal business, would emerge through my fingers into incoherent bursts to outlines to journal entries to keep to myself or blog posts to share with the world. I’d spend hours documenting details, swapping adjectives, and deliberating over commas until my mind felt lighter. I’d read my missive several times, and, as God did on the seventh day, finally let myself rest.
My blog posts accumulated over the course of a decade, across five schools, four pregnancies, three households, two popes, and one blissful marriage. I always had a story to tell, whether it was the journey of faith that led us home after we were displaced by Hurricane Sandy to our pilgrimage out of quarantine to St. Anthony’s Shrine. I was never short on content, and on those late nights my cursor stepped aside so that the Holy Spirit could flow through me. Until it didn’t.
Sometimes I imagine the Holy Spirit as a butterfly sitting on my shoulder, brushing my cheeks with its wings, whispering softly in my ear. This is God talking to me, but all too often, my ears and my head are consumed by the noise of the earthly world. I’m focused on inconsequential minutia like social media, ever-mounting household chores, and unhealthy food and drinks. How can I hear God when I’m scrolling through my Instagram? How can I hear God when I’m barking at my children to take care of the dishes? How can I hear God when I’m drinking too much wine?
Why have I surrendered my precious evenings of practicing my art to all of this? I’ve been wasting sacred time feeding corporal urges that buzz and bing around me like the insatiable
notifications and alerts inside my phone. In all that cacophony, I’ve failed to hear the Holy Spirit urging me to use my gift to spread God’s word. We had an arrangement, but I failed to keep up my end. I brushed that butterfly off my shoulder when I should have let him rest upon my fingertips, nudging them through the QWERTY alphabet, in punctuated patterns that transform the abstractions of my mind into images and thoughts that someone else can understand.
A year ago, I told myself that I should give up writing. My life was rampant with stress and I knew something had to go. I chose to quit writing because I no longer felt inspired. It was one of the greatest mistakes of my life. A piece of me has been missing, but a phone call from another writer friend, Peachy Dixon, reminded me of who I was.
“Are you still writing for the Catholic Review?” she asked. “Your name is still up there. Why haven’t you been writing?”
Peachy is in her early 80s and has published four books and still writes. She still works as a waitress at Sabatino’s and has been an inspiration for me in so many ways. I mean, she still has the audacity to call her much younger friend and say, “What are you waiting for?”
You’re right, Peachy. I’ve been waiting too long. I’ve been waiting for inspiration and today you gave that to me.
Holy Spirit, I’m listening. Let me be your scribe.
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