What We Were Created For

I stare out at the audience, an army of eyes eagerly waiting for my message. I look down at my notes, the words carefully chosen for impact. I lift my head to the camera waiting for the signal. Waiting to speak as no teacher has spoken before. Ready to change the world. And yet...something feels off.

The audience dissolves, the dream fades and I find myself staring at my computer screen. Five new emails. One catches my eye.

The first thing I notice is a picture that can best be described as the burning bush if it were at the birth of Narnia--flames of magical color shooting forth in harmony with the song of Aslan. At the same time the place seems both homely and forbidden. Like a sort of sacred ground. And I can't help but wonder if I were invited by mistake.

Then there were the words. Only three of them. "Less of me." There were many more words in this place, all of them beautifully inscribed. But it was those three that continued to echo around my mind.

Humility is one of those traits that seems to continually elude me. I know it in my head, but I also love to put on a show. The lights come on to reveal a scene beyond imagination. The music runs through my head continually, rising and dropping with the story's tension. Like a conductor, I raise my arms; like a director, I command this universe of my own. That's what I see.

In Judaism, humility is said to be filling the space you have been given--no more, no less. Everyone has been allotted space in this world; each person's space unique.

When I imagine teaching, something always feels off. When people compliment me for knowing my Bible, I get uncomfortable. Like I am occupying a space in which I do not belong. It's different with my stories. I don't know why or if will always be that way. Maybe because it seems like less of a responsibility than teaching. Maybe because it is more personal. I don't really know. But when I write a story, I feel like that is my place to be the director, to command the song.

I look back up at the stage. That is not my space. Not now.

I look back to the Narnian tree. In wisps of fire, I see a story untold. I see raw imagination ready to be crafted into words. And I can't help but wonder, is this where I belong?