The Part of You That Refuses to Quit

I still remember something a teacher told my parents when I was a little boy.

You see, I loved writing. I loved making videos. My head was always full of stories and ideas, and I couldn't wait to bring them to life. Unfortunately, not everybody shared my enthusiasm.

During a parent-teacher conference, one of my teachers suggested that I should probably transfer out of creative writing and take wood shop or something instead.

Now, there's absolutely nothing wrong with wood shop. But when you're a little boy who loves telling stories, hearing an adult suggest that you're just not cut out for it can break your heart.

And it did.

I went off into my little corner, cried for a while, and kicked some dirt. But after I'd finished feeling sorry for myself, something interesting happened.

I got up and went right back to creating.

And the funny thing is, I never really stopped.

As I grew older, the disappointments became bigger. Different people, different circumstances, but often the same message. You're not good enough. You're wasting your time. Maybe you should try something else.

And I'd respond almost exactly the way I had as a child. I'd get discouraged, question myself, kick a little dirt, and eventually go right back to whatever I was doing.

I wonder how many of you recognize yourselves in that story.

Maybe yours wasn't writing. Maybe it was a career you wanted, a talent you hoped to develop, or something you felt deeply compelled to accomplish. Somewhere along the way, somebody told you that you weren't good enough, and those words stayed with you.

Some people eventually walk away. Others keep trying, year after year, even when the results never seem to justify the effort.

And sometimes, we don't even understand why.

I've spent a lot of time asking myself that question.

Why do I keep writing books when they don't sell the way I'd hoped? Why produce music when hardly anybody is listening? Why pour so much time into projects when the practical thing might be to quit and find something else?

Maybe become a baker. I don't know.

For years, I thought the answer was stubbornness. Maybe I just couldn't tolerate being told I wasn't good enough. Maybe somewhere inside me, that little boy was still trying to prove his teacher wrong.

But the older I get, the less that explanation makes sense.

Because even if every book became successful, and every project finally received the recognition I'd hoped for, I suspect I'd wake up the next morning wanting to create something else.

And that realization led me to a question I hadn't seriously considered before.

What if I'd spent my entire life confusing the things I do with the reason I'm here?

Think about how easily that can happen.

We spend years pursuing careers, developing talents, raising families, and trying to build something meaningful. Along the way, those things become so closely connected to our identity that we begin measuring our worth by how well they're going.

When things succeed, we feel successful. When they fall apart, we begin wondering what's wrong with us.

But our accomplishments and our identity were never meant to be the same thing.

And somewhere along my own journey, I began to recognize that the work itself wasn't what had been sustaining me all those years.

It was Yah.

My love for the Father. My love for His Son, Yehoshua. And the extraordinary promise that our lives can be transformed into something far greater than we could ever make of ourselves.

You see, I don't believe my ultimate mission is to write books, produce music, or build websites. Those are simply some of the ways I express what's in my heart. They're opportunities to tell stories, encourage people, and hopefully point someone toward the One who has given my life its meaning.

Because more than anything, I wish everybody could know Him.

Not simply know about Him, but experience His love, His mercy, and the transformation that comes from walking with Him.

And there's something Yehoshua said in John chapter fifteen that brings all of this into focus.

He described Himself as the vine, and His followers as the branches. Then He said, "Without me ye can do nothing."

I've thought about those words many times.

A branch doesn't produce fruit because it's particularly determined, or because it works harder than the other branches. It bears fruit because it remains connected to the vine.

Its life comes from that connection.

And I wonder how often we forget that.

We work harder, make more plans, and try to force our lives into the shape we think they should take. But the kind of fruit Yehoshua was describing isn't something we can manufacture through effort alone. It grows out of our relationship with Him.

That doesn't mean we stop working or abandon our responsibilities. It means recognizing that our effort isn't the source of our spiritual life.

And perhaps even more remarkable is what Scripture says that life is leading toward.

In Romans, Paul speaks of being conformed to the image of the Son. And in Second Corinthians, he describes believers being transformed into that same likeness.

Think about that for a moment.

The promise isn't simply that we'll become more successful, more talented, or more accomplished.

It's that we can become more like Yehoshua.

More loving. More patient. More merciful. More like the One who showed us what the Father's love truly looks like.

And suddenly, the journey begins to take on an entirely different meaning.

Maybe some of those disappointments weren't wasted years after all. Maybe they became opportunities to develop patience, humility, and a deeper understanding of where our strength really comes from.

Now, I'm not suggesting that Yah personally arranged every rejection or disappointment. I don't know that. But I do believe He can work within our circumstances, even the painful ones, to help us grow.

And sometimes the greatest change isn't in what happens around us.

It's in what happens within us.

I still want my creative work to succeed. Of course I do. I'd love for people to read the books, enjoy the music, and find something meaningful in the stories I share.

But I'm learning not to let the success or failure of those things determine who I am.

And if Yah leads me in another direction tomorrow, then I need to be willing to follow Him there, too.

Because not every dream is necessarily our calling. Sometimes faithfulness means continuing, and sometimes it means letting go. What matters is whether we're drawing closer to Him along the way.

You know, I sometimes think about that little boy sitting in his corner, crying because somebody told him he wasn't good enough.

And I wonder what I'd say to him if I could go back and sit beside him for a few minutes.

I wouldn't promise him that he'd become a famous writer. I wouldn't tell him that everything he created would someday be successful, or that the people who doubted him would eventually admit they were wrong.

I couldn't honestly promise him any of those things.

But I would tell him something I wish he'd understood all those years ago.

You don't have to spend your life proving your worth to people who doubt you. And you don't have to earn the love of your Father by becoming somebody the world considers successful.

You're already loved.

And there's a journey ahead of you that's far more important than anything you'll ever create.

You're going to learn about mercy. You're going to learn about forgiveness. You're going to make mistakes, and you're going to discover just how much you need the One who loves you.

And through it all, you're going to have the opportunity to become a little more like His Son.

That's the journey that matters.

I still don't know where all this creative work will lead. Maybe it'll reach a few people. Maybe it'll reach many. And maybe some of it will never go anywhere at all.

But I'm going to keep creating, keep learning, and keep walking with Yah as faithfully as I can.

Not because I need to prove that little boy's teacher was wrong.

But because somewhere along the way, I discovered that the greatest thing I could ever become wasn't a successful writer, musician, or creator.

It was someone who reflected the love of the Father and the character of His Son.

And when the day finally comes that my work here is finished, I hope I can look back and see that, through His mercy, I became a little more like Yehoshua along the way.

Until then, I'll keep doing whatever useful work is placed before me.

And every now and then, I'll probably still find myself sitting in a corner, kicking a little dirt.

Glory to Yah in Yehoshua's name.

Amen and Amen.

— Wayne Bodie Books Audio