When You Find Yourself on Empty

NOTE: Friends, please welcome our next guest blogger, my sweet friend, Abi! She is in the throes of young motherhood, among many other adventures, so I am grateful she was able to find time to write for us (I mean, I barely found time to go to the bathroom when my kids were little!) When she sent me her post this weekend, I almost cried. It is so timely for Christmas time and 2020 in general, when we all find ourselves running on empty, and I know so many of us can relate. You can read more about Abi and find ways to follow her writing at the end of this post. Thank you for taking time to read her words today!

In the countdown to Christmas and new year, we find ourselves writing and reviewing more lists than usual. We regularly unpack our cluttered brains with all of the “to dos” of the busy season and take pleasure in crossing items off our lists. We might find ourselves deciphering items on our children’s handwritten gift lists, monitoring tight budgets and balances, googling seasonal recipes and scribbling “brussel sprouts, cranberry sauce, eggnog” on the backs of envelopes, which we stuff into pockets before spreading pleated fabric over our faces and dashing out to the store.  

In between curbside pick ups and scheduled package deliveries, maybe we are also finding time to pen gratitude lists and gather all of the memories and lessons of 2020, or returning to bullet point prayers and resolutions to reflect and evaluate. Perhaps we’re so desperate to exchange this challenging year for a fresh start, we’re already jotting down our dreams, plans, and projects for what we hope is a brighter year ahead. 

In the last few weeks, I’ve done many of these things. I’m an analog-loving fan of pen, paper, and post-it notes. There’s a good chance you’ll find me frantically sorting through the mental mess of the season by spreading sticky yellow squares all over the kitchen table. For me, list writing is an organizational strategy and a therapeutic exercise. I also consider it to be a sometimes-effective sleep aid.

One night when I was struggling to fall asleep, I sat up and began to write a grocery list for the next day (as you do). Frustratingly, as I was nearing the end, the pen I was using began to dry out. Blue, inky letters gradually turned to dry, colorless etchings on the page. I furiously scribbled circles in the margins, applying more pressure than necessary, but that didn’t work. I moved the pen back and forth in straight and wiggly lines, but still, no ink appeared. Then in a last-ditch effort, I shook the pen with a strong flick of my wrist, multiple times, hoping that any residual ink stuck in the inner tube would shift towards the nib. I was trying to get that last bit of remaining ink to move and flow out so that I could finish my list. I got a little more done, but it still wasn’t enough. None of my efforts proved entirely successful (and neither did my “sleep aid”). It seemed like a reflection of the state of my heart at the end this year. 

When we are coming to the end of a challenging season, it is easy to grow weary and despondent. We might know the finish line is coming, but we are limping and shuffling towards the blurry end with a pained expression. We feel dry and spent. We’ve run out of energy and motivation. We can feel like that dwindling ink pen, with nothing left to give. We don’t have the strength or supply to finish what we started, let alone finish it well. 

In response, we either settle for less, strive for more, or give up entirely. Some of us decide that we will just survive it, shrink back, and quietly, dutifully finish. Some of us see our fast-fading output and fight back by adding more pressure and movement, trying to force any remaining fuel to the surface. Others of us abandon efforts altogether. 

In frustration, we can force and we can press and shake. In weariness, we can settle for running out and barely there—or even nothing at all. But thankfully those aren’t our only options. We can also admit our weakness and seek the strength and supply only God can provide. 

Perhaps you have given up and put your efforts on hold. You’re pinning all of your hope onto an uncertain future and shutting down until it appears. God has more for you right now.

Maybe hard times have caused you to retreat into the comfort of nostalgia and you find yourself wistfully looking back more than you are eagerly looking forward. Remember—you still have a story to tell, a vital part to play. God has much more He wants to do through you.  

May God release what is stuck, refresh your supply, and free you to flow in the gifts He has given you, to love and serve well in the places He has called you. May you and the people around you be utterly surprised by the abundant overflow of His goodness and grace to you. We are not those who shrink back and diminish but those who press on, fight the good fight, and finish the race.

Bring your lack, your empty vessels, bring your unfinished lists and your fading letters to an unlimited and generous God. Lower your tired and trembling hand, point your dwindling ink pen to the page once again and let grace that’s sufficient flow.

Sometimes the best stories are written from a place of emptiness, and the greatest miracles happen in a time of drought. Just as the finest wine is brought out at the end—quite unexpectedly—maybe the most vibrant ink is reserved for the last few lines. Though you feel weak and empty, God’s power and life will flow through you as you commit to the blank spaces ahead and move forward in faith.  

“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Cor 12:19)

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Abi Marks is a British non-fiction writer who moved to the middle of America 12 years ago. She lives in Missouri with her husband and three lively daughters where she also works as an adjunct English instructor and freelance copy editor. She loves a good analogy, looks for meaning in ordinary things, and writes to inspire reflection about life, faith, and creativity. You can find her on Instagram @abi.m.marks and her blog abimarks.wordpress.com.