THE SCARIEST PRAYER I EVER PRAYED

Many authors tell me they knew they were called to write when they were young. That wasn't true for me. I did love books, though. As a child, I spent so much time in the library that the librarian let me help put books back on the shelves after school. In elementary school, I checked out four or five books at a time and raced through them before the next day. At night, I'd hide under the covers with a flashlight and read until I fell asleep—though that didn't happen very often because I always wanted to finish the books first. I even wrote my first "book" when I was around eight years old. It was called Danny Goes to the Circus. Danny was my younger brother. I wrote the story, illustrated it myself, and proudly stapled it together on notebook paper.

Years later, in high school, I continued to write. I filled notebooks with poetry. Looking back, most of it was probably fueled by teenage angst, but I loved writing it. One day, my English teacher asked everyone in class to submit three poems. I was so excited. At a time when I desperately needed encouragement, I hoped she might tell me mine were good. My parents were divorced, and my mother was struggling with mental health issues. Life was difficult, and a little affirmation would have meant the world to me. After the poems were all turned in, my teacher read them aloud to the class without identifying the authors. She read mine. When she finished, she said she was sure she'd read them somewhere before. In other words, she didn't believe I had written them. I was crushed. What I didn't realize until years later was that she must have thought they were good poems. Good enough that she couldn't believe a student had written them. Unfortunately, I wasn't confident enough to see it that way at the time. After that, I didn't write again for many years.

Then, when I was in my forties, I heard a minister say something that changed my life. He suggested that if we looked back at our childhoods, we might discover clues about God's calling on our lives by paying attention to what came naturally to us. I realized that my love for books might mean something. Around the same time, I was watching "Murder, She Wrote." For the first time in my life, I found myself thinking, I want to be Jessica Fletcher.

Not literally, of course.

But something about her life appealed to me. That, along with the words from the minister, made me wonder. Was it possible that God was calling me to write? So, one day during my lunch hour at the bank where I worked, I sat down at a computer and tried to write a novel. Three pages later, I quit. I stared at the screen and thought, I must be wrong. I can't do this. Then a quiet voice whispered, Try one more time. I didn't expect anything to change, but I took a deep breath and tried again. And something happened. Suddenly, the words began to flow. Ideas appeared. Characters came to life. My fingers moved across the keyboard as if they'd been waiting for permission.

That feeling has never left me.

I spent the next year learning the craft of writing. Because writing isn't just inspiration—it's work. It's learning structure, pacing, characterization, dialogue, and all the countless skills that turn an idea into a novel. But then reality set in. I realized how much effort it would take to become a published author. I understood the sacrifices involved. The time away from my family. The commitment. The possibility of failure. Before I invested years pursuing this dream, I needed to know whether it was really God's plan for my life. So, I prayed the scariest prayer I have ever prayed, and I set a fleece before the Lord.


Now, I know some people would say I should have simply trusted God and followed His leading. They're probably right. But at that point in my life, I needed reassurance. And God, in His kindness, didn't scold me for that. He met me where I was. My fleece was simple. I asked God to make it snow during a specific week. That may not sound like much, but there was one problem. The week I chose was in April. I was living in Wichita, Kansas, and although I didn't know it at the time, Wichita hadn't received measurable snow in April for forty years.

Forty years.

Had I known that little fact beforehand, I might have chosen a different sign. But I had to know. The unspoken agreement was simple: if God answered, I would believe He was calling me to write—and I would follow.

So, what happened?

Did God answer my prayer?

He did.

During the week I chose, on Friday, it snowed nine inches. Nine inches. Later, when I learned that Wichita hadn't seen measurable April snow for four decades, I nearly fainted.

But God had answered.

Five years passed before I signed with my first major publisher. During those years, I collected lots of rejection letters. There were disappointments. There were moments when quitting would have been easier. Did I get discouraged? Of course. Did I give up? No.

Because of the snow.

Whenever doubt crept in, I remembered that April snowfall and the promise behind it. God had answered my prayer. He had called me to write, and He wasn't going to abandon me halfway through the journey.

Today, after more than fifty books, I can see His fingerprints all over my career. Looking back, I'm grateful I prayed that scary prayer. I'm grateful I was willing to ask. And I'm grateful God was gracious enough to meet me where I was.

What about you?

Is there something God has been nudging you toward? A dream you've been afraid to pursue? A door you've been hesitant to open? You may not need nine inches of snow to find your answer, but if you're willing to seek God's will and trust Him with the outcome, you may discover that the thing you're most afraid of is the very thing He created you to do.

Sometimes the scariest prayer you'll ever pray is also the one that changes everything.

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Nancy