This Is My Gift. This Is My Time.

Using your God-given gifts. What an old friend, two Bible verses, and a long-ago memory taught me about using what I've been given.

One of my fondest memories of my sister's friend Tish is from when I was young. Junior high, maybe? The details are fuzzy.

But the moment isn't.

We were walking across a field in my hometown of Elbridge, New York, and Tish was singing Movin' on Up, the theme song from The Jeffersons. And when I say singing, I don't mean quietly humming to herself.

Tish performed her way across that field. She sang. She danced. She moved her whole body. She was completely, gloriously Tish.

I don't remember whether I joined her. Knowing younger me, probably not.

But if I had a do-over? Oh, I'd dance. I'd sing too, although that part would be considerably less enjoyable for anyone within earshot.

Tish has a beautiful voice. She loves jazz and has spent a lifetime in music. My singing voice is best suited for the shower. Alone. Preferably with the water running.

But I've discovered that I have an instrument too.

Words.

In August, decades after that walk across the field, Tish reached out to me. She'd been following my writing and asked for my address so she could support my work the old-fashioned way: snail mail. She said she liked the idea of occasionally sending me a card to encourage me, instead of always being the recipient of my encouragement.

A few weeks later, an envelope arrived in my mailbox. Inside was an extraordinarily generous gift. But it was the handwritten note that stopped me.

Tish wrote about the impossibility of knowing, when we're young, what the people around us will someday become. She said she never would have guessed that her friend Kathy's little sister would grow up to share her love of writing.

Then she wrote something I've returned to several times since:

“Here we are in middle age (if I may), doing what we love. How very blessed we are!”

At the bottom of her letter, she wrote: Psalm 108:1.

Naturally, I looked it up.

The verse begins, “My heart is steadfast,” and ends with a declaration that feels unmistakably Tish: I will sing. I will make music.

Of course.

A musician chose a verse about making music.

And that got me wondering: What would my verse be?

I went looking and found Psalm 45:1:

“My heart is stirred by a noble theme … my tongue is the pen of a skillful writer.”

Oh.

Something stirs me. An experience. A conversation. A bike ride. Heartbreak. Healing. Love. Leadership. Something someone says that I can't quite let go of. I sit with it. I wrestle with it. I try to understand what it's here to teach me. And eventually, I write.

This is my gift.

Then I found myself drawn to another verse. One I've heard many times before, but one that landed differently in this season of my life.

Esther 4:14:

“And who knows but that you have come … for such a time as this?”

This one isn't about the gift. It's about the moment.

This is my time.

Not a prediction. Not a promise that I know exactly where any of this is going. Not some grand declaration that I've finally figured out God's plan for my life.

Just two truths I can return to when I need them: This is my gift. This is my time.

I've spent a lot of my life preparing. Learning, growing, working, healing, becoming. I've earned certifications. Read the books. Taken the workshops. Done the personal work. Built a career. Written books. Created courses and presentations. I've brought things to life simply because I could see what they might become. And more recently, I found myself considering going back to school for another degree. Maybe one more credential. One more thing that would make me ready. Except somewhere along the way, a different question began emerging:

What if I'm already ready enough to use what I've been given?

Recently, I finally put words around what I think I've been trying to understand: I don't need another credential to prepare for the life I want. I need the courage to live it.

Maybe this season isn't asking me to prepare for some future version of myself. Maybe it's asking me to trust the woman who's already here. To use what I've been given. To follow what feels alive and aligned. To stay open to where it leads instead of deciding in advance what it's supposed to become. 

Tish has spent a lifetime making her music.

I'm making mine.

And maybe you have an instrument, too.

Not necessarily music. Not necessarily words. Maybe it's the way you teach or lead. The things you build. The problems you solve. The way you care for people, create beauty, make connections, tell stories, grow things, fix things, or love.

Maybe something has been stirring in you for a long time.

And maybe you've spent enough time preparing to use it.

I keep coming back to that long-ago image of Tish dancing unabashedly across a field. If I had a do-over, I wouldn't stand on the sidelines wondering whether I should join in.

I'd dance.

I'd sing.

Maybe that's what this season is.

My do-over.

Except this time, I'm dancing and singing.

This is my gift. This is my time.