the unrighteous steward

I fear that God will tell me that I can burn all my journals, he won’t be needing them, years and years of beautiful words, lost forever. I fear he has no use for the hours I have spent writing, and studying and thinking, that it was all to ‘grow’ me, but now, like training wheels, can be removed and disposed of. I fear that those pages are really days in my life and they are without purpose. What if because I am so apart of them, and they apart of me, that I too am useless. I am afraid that God sees me like a child on the floor and my whole life, thus far, is really only a few short years, and all my work is Legos’ and Dollhouses play with no eternal value; that my obsession with writing, my proficiency in the scriptures, the seriousness I have given to all my revelations are immature grandiose; that it’s all for nothing and amounts to nothing.
I tremble slightly when I consider that all the treasures I have unearthed are going to be expressed by someone else who discovered them with more assertion and aggressiveness, perhaps with more faith, someone who has a much easier time of it all. Maybe their faithfulness outweighs my own, their skills far more precious, their efforts praiseworthy, their lives considered gold while I am wood, their opportunities present, mine hidden. Will I be reprimanded, like the Unrighteous Steward?
Am I a weak link in the chain of Christian writers and prophets? I fear this. I fear that I will not reach the purpose God made me for because of my own deaf ear, because of my own heavy heart, because of my own unwillingness to stand on my tippy toes or pull over a chair. It will no doubt be my fault, I wasn’t enough, I didn’t work hard enough, try long enough, I wouldn’t do what was necessary to answer the call. I’m scared that I will be responsible for a call I spent my whole life searching for. Have I really been so faithful to write every day, or faithless because I didn’t take steps to publish, will I perish for my ignorance? I’m afraid I will never be able to organize myself into a book. I fear I will not say all that is inside of me, and what if it really just doesn’t count, perhaps I only think it counts, that is the biggest fear of all. That I have spent a lifetime, wasted my days on something that doesn’t matter, and I don’t know how to make it matter. Oh God, I want to hear “well done”, I long to hear your voice resonate through my heart with those tones, but what have I done well? I can’t seem to move forward, I can’t seem to move at all. I want to do more for you I just don’t know how. I’ve been waiting on you, waiting for someone to find me and help, but no help has arrived, my words and thoughts and ideas slowly fading, crumbling around my feet, sinking into the earth, deep underground; hidden.
Have mercy on a sinner like me for I too was lost, but now I am found. Perhaps even the talents you have given us can be redeemed?

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