Sunday Devotion: And what do you do?

Janet Rubin

My friend Christina drove up the mile-long driveway that led through a towering forest. I watched eagerly for sight of the house. What kind of people had a driveway this long? Soon a large sign came into view—a carved wooden sign reading, “Harmony Hill.” What kind of people named their property? Memories of Scarlett O’hara and her plantation, Tara, came to mind as the imposing house rose before us. Warm light streamed from the many grand windows and projected long golden rectangles on the snowy lawn.

The owners were a well-to-do Polish couple who were hosting a piano concert to raise money for scholarships for young aspiring pianists. They’d hired a world renowned pianist to put on a full concert of Chopin pieces. Somehow, my friend Christina (a supervisor at a company that makes gauges for the marine industry) had gotten an invitation, and invited me (a stay-at-home mom and wannabe writer) to come along.

So here I was, standing in a kitchen the size of my entire house, accepting the offer of a Brazilian cheese ball from a woman carrying a tray and offering hors d’ourves, a glass of wine in one hand, and my eyes roaming the walls and taking in the expensive art displayed at every turn.

I found my self chatting with a woman name Betsy who lived in New York City, but drove in for the concert. She told of how she’d grown bored producing PBS documentaries, had sold her share of the business to her partner and now studied painting under a master artist. Her boyfriend, a white-haired pole of a man, bragged about the opera he’d just finished writing, which had taken him eight years to complete.

"What do you do?" she asked.

Before I could stop her, Christina opened her mouth and blurted, “Oh, Janet’s a great writer.”

Now Betsy and John leaned forward, waiting to hear about my accomplishments.

“What do you write?” Betsy asked.

“Uh…um…this and that…” I could feel my face and ears turning redder than the ruby on Betsy’s finger. My mind raced. I could say I had written Harry Potter under my pen name, Rowling. No, that wouldn’t be good. I tried honesty. “I’ve gotten some stories and articles published here and there, but I’m working on a novel right now.”

“Oh!” Betsy nodded. “Where has your work appeared? Any literary publications?”

I sipped my wine, buying time. “Nothing you would have heard of, I’m sure.”

“Try me,” she insisted, “You’d be surprised what I’ve heard of.”

What could I say? I’ve had some devotionals pubbed in small devotional booklets? I could ask if she'd heard of Novel Journey...

Apparently, I waited too long to answer, and thankfully, the conversation shifted.

“Betsy wrote a novel,” John announced.

She shrugged. “Oh yes, that. It’s in a drawer. My agent loved it, but someone else came out with something similar. I lost interest in the whole thing…”

It was no small relief when the host announced the concert’s beginning. We moved into a great hall filled with rows of folding chairs, and at the front, a grand piano. The music was delightful. I let myself get lost in it and forgot the tuxedoed men, and high-class women. I thought of Chopin, how he composed such music, and the years the elderly man on the piano bench spent practicing to be able to play an hour’s worth of intricate pieces so well and with no music before him.

Later, at home, shame came over me. What on earth had happened to me in the midst of those people that I would suddenly become so ashamed of who I was and what I did? I thought of the wonder of the life God has given me—a hard-working husband, three beautiful daughters, and a passion for writing. I thought of the people who’d told me my writing blessed or encouraged them in some way. How dare I underestimate the worth of that!

As many parts of one body, the Bible says we all have jobs—some big and glamorous, others small but just as needed. The important thing is that we are all working for Jesus, “the head” of the body, and that He is using us for His grand purposes.

Betsy and John seemed accomplished, people with glittering lives. But were they happy? Did they know Jesus? If not, then indeed I am richer than them. I regret that I did not speak with excitement about my devotional writing or my association with Christian writers groups. Perhaps they would have seen something of Jesus in me.

1 Corinthians 12:18 But in fact God has arranged the parts in the body, every one of them, just as he wanted them to be.

Lord, Forgive me for caring too much what man thinks of me, and not caring enough what You think of me. Forgive me for being the least bit ashamed of the wonderful life and gift You’ve given me. Help me to write for You. I am content to follow where you lead—whether it be to well-known literary magazines and best-selling novels or only to minister to a few. Thank You for making me who I am. Amen