I recently took a break from writing my book. I thought to myself, “After years of dreaming, but not actually writing, I have finally made some real progress on this thing. A little break wouldn’t hurt. I’ll take a week off.” But that week turned into almost two months. I would have tripled my word count, and now be halfway done with my first book if I had kept writing at the pace I had previously maintained.

Why did I stop? Why would I trade the work that I delight most in to indulge in distractions I know to be fleeting? I always fall for the temptation to stop writing. Often, it is not laziness, nor is it writer’s block (though I occasionally suffer from both). No, it is fear. Fear that I am wasting my time.

Like most people, I lead a busy life. I have a full-time job, a family, and am a student (plus hobbies, other interests, and church). These are very real God-given responsibilities that require my attention. I often spend my time moving from one glorious exhaustion to the next. When I come to the end of the day, or finally get some free time, I just want to rest. Why should I bother with writing? There is no guarantee of pay off, so why not do something familiar and safe. There is a strong chance that my work will never be read or appreciated, so why trouble at all? Thus, I slip back into my old habit of putting off writing.

When I sober up, I often respond harshly towards myself. I become my own terrible taskmaster, making unreasonable demands upon myself. “You coward; just do the work! Accomplish x by the end of the day, y by the end of the month, and z by the end of the year. It is not that hard you weakling.” I know; I am mean. While this harshness may work for a brief period, this approach pushes me back into fear just as quickly as it pulls me from fear. I am never able to meet my high expectations. I think too highly of myself when I set them, and think too lowly of myself when I cannot meet them.

So, what do I do, wretched writer that I am? Thanks be to God for Jesus.

As I picked up my keyboard this past week to begin writing again, fear crept up again and whispered, “You are wasting your time. No one will read what you have to say.” I asked myself in turn, “Why am I sinking so much time into this. Its true. No one probably will read this, and I may not even finish if I go on like this.” I prayed. Then it hit me. Jesus is reading this. Right now, Jesus is reading my words.

Jesus, King of all creation, head of the Church. Jesus, the one for whom, by whom, and through whom all things exist and are held together. Jesus, the Lord of the universe, who existed with the Father before the dawn of dawns. Jesus, who causes flowers to burst into bloom, stars to blaze, seas to swell, storms to rage, and the sun to burn in warmth and beauty. Jesus, my only righteousness, who alone reigns victorious over death. Jesus, the author and perfector of salvation, who is Himself the Word made flesh. Jesus, who has revealed Himself through written word in the greatest story to have ever been written, which leaves readers yearning to see the end.

Jesus is reading my words. And, He delights in them. (?!)

If I never get published, Jesus will have read my work. When writing for the glory of God and having Jesus as my primary reader, I have already been guaranteed pay off. Writing for Jesus is the most glorious thing I can do. I cannot want, nor should I want anything beyond that. If I am published and others benefit from these stories I am composing, it will be because my stories are good works that Jesus had prepared beforehand for His own glory.