Waiting for the Likes, by Liz Carter
I’ve always spent far too much time worrying about what
people think of me.
When I started writing in earnest, this tendency in me simply upped itself even more, leading to epic proportions of me analysing every word said about a blog post, every ‘like’ and more critically every absence of ‘like’ (or why did they like it but not love it? Or why the laughing face? Does the angry face mean they’re angry with me or agreeing with what I’ve written about some injustice or other? What about shares? Why no shares? Aaaagh! So many emotions in these innocuous little emoticons for us to get ourselves knotted up in.)
When I started writing in earnest, this tendency in me simply upped itself even more, leading to epic proportions of me analysing every word said about a blog post, every ‘like’ and more critically every absence of ‘like’ (or why did they like it but not love it? Or why the laughing face? Does the angry face mean they’re angry with me or agreeing with what I’ve written about some injustice or other? What about shares? Why no shares? Aaaagh! So many emotions in these innocuous little emoticons for us to get ourselves knotted up in.)
As writers, and as people, it’s so easy to invest too much
in our perceptions of what others are thinking, isn’t it. Even when we are
feeling particularly confident and happy with a piece of work, we still descend
to shivering-wreck state when we are waiting for comments. In the last few
weeks some very kind people have been reading my book in order to endorse it (or
not!) so the publishers can include some commendations. I’m incredibly
grateful for their time and effort, but oh boy, do I worry about what they
might be thinking and what they might say! All kinds of things have flown through
my head: They probably hate it. They probably think I’m a fraud. They must
think I’m really bad at writing. And so on, and so on, until I work myself into
all of a lather of anxiety about it.
I was doing a little of that the other day, when this still
small voice pushed through my wild ponderings. ‘Trust me,’ the voice said, and
my anxiety fled in that moment. This book I’ve written is for God’s glory, so
it’s kind of up to God, and I have no right to take it all back and forget to
trust God for all the extras. Plus, I could trust people a little more – these people
I respect and admire very much. Trust me,
said God, and in the liberating light of those two small words I shed my
worry and made a decision to put my mind and time to better use.
Those words don’t always mean that things will come together in the way we think they should, or that everything will be fixed and well, but that we can trust God anyway in the midst of where we are and what we are worrying about. We can trust God in our messiness and our insecurities as much as when everything seems to be coming together – and, in fact, when we trust in the harder times, we come to a more profound understanding of God’s nature and love which we are able to take with us into other difficult times we will face.
Those words don’t always mean that things will come together in the way we think they should, or that everything will be fixed and well, but that we can trust God anyway in the midst of where we are and what we are worrying about. We can trust God in our messiness and our insecurities as much as when everything seems to be coming together – and, in fact, when we trust in the harder times, we come to a more profound understanding of God’s nature and love which we are able to take with us into other difficult times we will face.
So I let these nagging insecurities go, and I went through
these waiting days with more of a sense of peace. Whenever worry started to nag
at me, I just said the words ‘I trust you’, and put it aside. Saying these
words reminded me of Proverbs 3:5-6:
Trust in the Lord with all your heart
and lean not on your own understanding;
in all your ways submit to him,
and he will make your paths straight.
I love these freedom words. We don’t have to lean on our own
understanding, or take the burden of our own anxieties.
Writing is a funny old thing, especially when we’re writing
something that others will read, because it exposes part of us, sometimes the
most vulnerable and raw of parts, and letting others into that part can feel
like a very scary thing to do. It’s no wonder we scour the comments and the
likes, searching for responses which build and encourage, and any that are more
negative knock us down. But if we can learn to put our own need for validation
aside and learn to sink all that we are into all God is then perhaps our writing
will shine with even more authenticity as we lay ourselves down.
‘Trust me’, God said to me, so clearly, in the midst of a moment of
confusion. ‘Trust me, whatever happens.’
The most incredible thing is that it isn’t in what actually does happen where we find our peace and flourishing, but in the act of trust itself. It's in that act where we find our liberation and our encouragement. Where we find that big red heart emoticon we are so desperately waiting for – one that means we need no more, for God is always, ever, more than enough.
The most incredible thing is that it isn’t in what actually does happen where we find our peace and flourishing, but in the act of trust itself. It's in that act where we find our liberation and our encouragement. Where we find that big red heart emoticon we are so desperately waiting for – one that means we need no more, for God is always, ever, more than enough.
Liz Carter is a writer and blogger.
You can find her website here:
Great Adventure
Liz's first book, Catching Contentment, will be published by IVP in November 2018.
I totally agree, Liz. Having only just started my own blog, I totally get where you're coming from. What a long old journey this Trust Journey is! And what a variety of means God uses along the way. But what a peaceful, joyful life we'll live when we finally get there! :)
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