Maybe I’m Supposed to Create Anyway
A spiritually reflective blog series about quiet obedience, creative calling, and the sacred work of becoming.
This is a slow space. A sacred space. A place to reflect on the wrestle behind the work—the tension between calling and clarity, faith and fear, starting and staying.
Ruth and the Ministry of Staying
Some mornings, I ask myself: Do I really want to keep doing this?
I open my blog dashboard and stare at the numbers. And no—I don’t get double-digit views every day. Sometimes it’s just one. And I know it’s my mom.
Still, the words keep coming. Still, I write. Still, I stay.
That quiet moment in the car
There are days I sit in my car, hands on the steering wheel, whispering to God, Why am I doing this? Then a few hours later, I’m back at it again—editing a post at night, choosing images, rearranging the same sentence three times. And I find myself wondering, Who is this even for?
But then I remember: I’m doing this for myself. For my children. For my family. Because this is what it feels like to be called to something.
It’s not always loud. It’s not always certain. Sometimes it looks like quietly tending something only God and a few others can see.
Like Simeon. Like Ruth. Like me. Like maybe you.
Maybe I’m like Simeon—waiting and waiting and waiting until the promise comes into view. Maybe no one will see it for twenty years. Maybe they’ll see it tomorrow. But either way, I’m going to give it my yes.
I’m going to stay.
The ordinary shape of obedience
I didn’t know how much staying would shape me. Not the grand gestures. Not the lightning bolt callings. Just the ordinary kind.
Staying in the hard marriage. Staying present with the child who is testing every limit. Staying planted when the job isn’t glamorous but it’s good. Staying faithful to a dream that hasn’t bloomed yet. And maybe most surprising of all—staying with God when I couldn’t feel Him.
Ruth said “I’ll stay.”
Not to the ideal future. Not to the perfect scenario. To a weary widow, in a dry field, with no guarantees.
She stayed—not because she had clarity, but because she had conviction. And it changed everything.
What if creativity asks for that same kind of staying?
Not just inspiration—but endurance. Not just a burst of vision—but rhythm.
Sometimes staying means continuing the thing God whispered to you— the half-finished manuscript, the song no one’s heard, the little project tucked in your Notes app that you started just to see if you could.
Ruth gleaned one handful at a time.
Maybe you’ve done the same. You’ve stayed at your desk, in the margins of your busy life, on the other side of rejection, silence, or “likes” that never came.
If that’s you—I hope you know this: It’s not wasted.
I write like I’m sowing seeds, not seeking applause.
The dashboard rarely surprises me anymore. I already know who clicked—or who didn’t.
But what surprises me is how often I come back anyway. I’ve published dozens of posts now, not because they’re widely read, but because they keep rising in me.
Maybe you’re supposed to create anyway—not because it’s seen, but because it’s sacred.
And maybe you’re doing that too. Maybe your thing doesn’t have an audience yet either. But you keep showing up—because something in you won’t let it go.
Staying is my way of gleaning.
It’s not glamorous. It’s not shiny. But it’s sacred.
And I’m starting to believe that God honors that kind of rhythm. The kind where you keep creating, keep building, keep returning to the quiet field you’ve been given.
It’s hard when no one notices.
We live in a world that celebrates speed, visibility, and arrival. But the kingdom often grows underground first. It’s slow. Hidden. Holy.
That can feel disheartening—especially when everyone else seems to be leaping forward while you’re still here, showing up quietly.
But obedience doesn’t have to be impressive to be effective.
Noah built the ark long before the first drop of rain. He followed instructions, not applause.
That kind of staying doesn’t trend. But it gets written into eternity.
You’re not just holding a pen. You’re holding a seed.
And I know it can feel like everyone else is blooming while you’re still buried.
But seeds don’t shout when they grow. They root. They rest. They reach.
That counts, too.
I used to think staying meant being stuck.
Now I know—it means being faithful. And sometimes, faithful looks like tending to the work God gave you long before anyone else sees it.
“Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.”
— Ruth 1:16
So if this is your field—this quiet, sacred calling—
If it feels invisible, or unglamorous, or like it might not “matter” in the big picture… I see you. Stay.
Even if your only readers are your mom and one other soul. Even if the work is quiet and the outcome uncertain.
Because maybe you’re supposed to create anyway.
Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s popular. But because God keeps whispering. And you’re finally learning to trust the whisper more than the numbers.
Even if you have to whisper back to yourself what you said at the very beginning:
“I’m trusting who I’m becoming, even if I don’t see where I’m going.”
It’s not about arrival.
It’s about becoming.
Still.
Blog #15 of 16 – Ruth and the Ministry of Staying
Read the full series: /maybe-im-supposed-to-create-anyway
What’s the field you’ve been quietly gleaning in?
I’d love to hear from you in the comments.
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