Doubting My Doubts

It is my final week of a three-week-long class on how to share my vision for ministry and tell stories better. Tonight my instructor asked me what I have learned, and I immediately answered, "I didn't know that I can tell stories, and do it well!"

If I don't feel absolutely prepared and confident at something I tend to withdraw. The same happens when I get carried away by the notion that everyone is better than me. Even at the beginning of the class two weeks ago I complained to my mom that taking a class over Skype is awkward and not ideal because of the disconnect I felt from talking to a computer screen. (So what should I do if I am in a situation that isn't ideal? Make the best of it... that just isn't my reaction the majority of the time.) It shows that maybe I need to Skype more.


A few posts back I mentioned that God is taking me into a more challenging season of life I once believed I could never handle. But now I am doubting my doubts. As He presents each new challenge, He provides the way to do it. Two weeks ago I believed I wasn't a storyteller. But with a little training, some deadlines, encouragement, and prayer from dear friends, I think that just maybe I can do this... I can share my experiences in an interesting way that people can relate to. What I have experienced matters, and I should share it. That doesn't mean it has to matter to everybody else, but I should share because what I have to say might matter to somebody.

Two weeks ago I shared about my ministry at the church of some dear friends in Salisbury, Maryland. I got nervous and cried through most of it (not kidding), but hey... I did it! I shared my testimony and ministry vision with the ladies of my own church last Saturday. Again, cried through part of it, but I choose to blame that on my emotional side. More speaking engagements are coming, so I can practice telling my stories without crying!

Today, I am more confident than I was two weeks ago. This is good. I am being stretched. I am changing. I am so glad God loves me enough to strengthen me instead of letting me remain in my comfort zone.

Speaking of stories, my dear mother (who has an obsession with rearranging furniture) wanted to get rid of a chair taking up space in her sewing room and suggested moving it into my room. My aunt owns this chair, once used in her family's "guest" living room, used for special company. When I was little and my aunt and uncle still lived at that house, I almost never went into that room to play. It seemed like a sacred place, with the furniture and carpet perfectly clean and every couch pillow perfectly placed. The room was located at the back of the house, far away from the kitchen and dining room, the two rooms where most of our family get-togethers took place. The fancy pale-pink parlor chair still has an air of sacredness, but it does wonders for me when reading. While I used to sit on my bed to read, or on the floor with my back against the bed, now I have my very own reading chair. It gives my room more maturity (memories of grandparents and great-aunts and uncles sitting in it, perhaps balancing out my, uh, youthfulness?) It sits comfortably and lets me prop my feet up on the bed.

I love my new chair.

Thanks to my sister for obliging my silly need
to put a photo on the blog.