Get Some Exercise

A few things from my younger days have been preserved in writing, among them a prayer that was prayed over me when I was about ten years old. I was reading that, recently, and my attention was caught by one little phrase: "… that she would exercise to her uttermost the gifts of God that are in her." It may not seem like much, and I’d never thought much about it before, myself.

Have you ever looked back at something you did ten years ago, or twenty years ago, and been embarrassed? Oh, man, that was really bad. I can’t believe I wrote/drew/sang/painted/did that! I rather hope you did, or you won’t have a clue what I’m talking about. Many, many times that has happened to me, and just now I’m realizing it’s because I did what that man, all those years ago, prayed that I would do.

Only very rarely does a gift of God arrive in full-blown maturity. Most of the time it comes as a seed, or, at least, something that is small and weak. It doesn’t look like much, and could easily be overlooked. How easy it would have been for most of the gifts of God in me to be overlooked!

As I child, I couldn’t write a rhyme if my life depended on it. I couldn’t tell stories, either. Oh, and let’s not overlook that I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket! I was ten when my sister drilled me for hours, at the piano, until I memorized the harmony to a simple old hymn. Even when I did begin to grow my ability to sing a bit, my voice was low and flat and none too pleasant. Who would have thunk? Even I only barely dreamed any of what I discovered in myself—or, more accurately, I desired it. I didn’t dream it was possible, but I wanted it.

When I look back, though, I realize that whatever I did find, I exercised, tiny though it was. And when something is that small and insignificant, when exercised it shows up puny. Until it’s exercised more. And more. And more. Then, one day, it looks, well, brawny. It looks good and strong and even, perhaps, impressive. And the original version looks even more puny than it did at the time.

I’m listening to a home-made CD from eight or nine years ago. In some ways it was very well done; in others, a puny effort. I’m actually not embarrassed. I recently read the novel I wrote more than ten years ago, and I wasn’t embarrassed by that, either. A shift has taken place in my mind, and I have learned to not despise those small beginnings. Instead, I can admire that clueless, helpless girl who took what little she had, and did something with it: she exercised the gifts of God that were in her. Even yet, nothing is as strong as it will someday be, but …

It’s getting stronger every day.

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