Just as you do not know the way of the wind or the mysteries of a woman with child, no more can you know the work of God who is behind it all.
In the morning sow your seed,
do not let your hands lie idle in the evening.
For which will prove successful, this or that, you cannot tell, and it may be that both will turn out well together.-Ecclesiastes 11:5-6
With a certain amount of enthusiasm I submitted (in terms of the publishing terminology and not to a person) a devotion I had been editing about once or twice a week since about two-three weeks ago, does not seem a long time in terms of space logistics, quite a fluid transit from beginning to finish. I was pleased with the piece but wondered how it would go down, for the worse, rather than the better, which is usually the case with this writer. However, I am hoping for the best, of course.
Writing is always a nuisance when you got a zillion other things to do in the order of a day. Writing is always in view, though. And in fact I am onto a devotion right away! And a zillion other pieces. They say my enthusiasm is infectious, it seems that way, but they also say I have a way with words, so I can make things sound enthusiastic when they are not. But I do have a piece to get onto rather promptly and am looking forward to writing it–it’s just the matter of getting it right that frightens me.
The conversation would have gone like this so I imagine. We were in the studio, two of us sitting there. There was a song on the playlist. A decent song, about being faithful forever to this girl. The guy across from me said that song was selected because of its meaning. Faithfulness. I said, “Have you heard all their other songs? Affairs and yet another lover? So, I doubt your judgment. Your judgment is 1 + 1 = 3.” He looked down on that one, but in a moment, pressed the button and played the song. “It doesn’t matter, does it? It does not matter to what we are doing here.” I listened and saw what he was saying. Yeah, it was just a contradiction playing that song, but I pondered over that. Would someone notice the inconsistency? Would it be wrong? Was not enough thought put into it? Or, indeed, did it really matter to them? I went away that day thinking about the human soul and the intersecting lines through it, but without a critical voice to manage it, who would? I guess when it came to the fluidity of soul it all flushes out and works out in the wash. Tomorrow it will be forgotten, except if the critic appeared, to ruin the flow, a taste of whistleblowing.
I’d say everyone well almost everyone has heard about the person who overworks and overplays and ends up with a heart attack. Why, oh, why?