It was Tuesday, but not just any Tuesday. On this particular Tuesday I was doing my first interview with a recording artist. I had written the review on Monday, the album had released that day, and he was taking time out of what I can only imagine was an incredibly hectic day to talk to me. 

I had set up the interview on Monday. He was in the U.K. and I in Canada, time zones apart—seven to be exact—however we just changed our clocks back for daylight savings time. We set the interview for 7 a.m.

I awoke Tuesday morning with plenty of time to get to the office for the 7 o'clock call. Then I checked my email, which told me that my call was 7 a.m.—Mountain Time! "Oh no," I thought, "I'm on daylight time, this interview is in 10 minutes. I'm still at home, and Skype isn't installed on my home computer." I shot off a quick email to push it back an hour. Grace freely was given, grace thankfully was received.

The interview went off without a hitch (except for being an hour later than planned). The snow was falling; it seemed like it had been falling since Saturday. Oh right. It was.

Tuesday is a busy day: work, drive through rush hour traffic to pick my daughter up at dance and then rush back across town to get to church. She has youth; I have Tuesday night prayer. 

Tuesday night prayer is that uplifting refuge in the middle of the week—an encouraging word and an hour of prayer with others walking their own journey. 

My latest journey had started just over three weeks prior. I woke up that Monday morning and something was slightly off. It almost felt as though I hadn't slept. (Not that I get the recommended eight hours per night anyway, but something was off in my spirit.) I sat at the kitchen counter at 5:30 a.m. to write my blog post, which has become my usual routine but nothing came out. I searched for inspiration in the small things around me; all I saw was darkness. I wrote that morning, but it wasn't for public consumption at the time.

I poured out my feelings on the keyboard:

"It is as though a piece of duct tape has been put across my mouth to shut me up, yet I'm not even struggling to pull the tape off. It is as though I am happy to sit here with my mouth shut with nothing to say... The more I write this morning, the deeper the hole grows. The ideas are sinking faster than they are rising. The words are failing, my mind is flailing. Struggling to come up with something that will resonate. At least resonate more than a resounding gong or pots and pans being banged together...I completely understand that every piece I write won't sound like a classical masterpiece. But it needs to be more than just noise. More than just another outflow of toxic waste into the rivers of social media and the mass of blogs that exist. A silent scream of frustration at 6 a.m. The silent scream called procrastination...My mind is all over the place right now. Not settling in a flow, not quieting down at all. Just the continuous jumble, undertoned by that silent scream. Almost like white noise."

This was not a normal Monday; these were not my normal words. Little did I know that this wasn't a downward spiral I was on; this was the bottom. I had come to the end of myself. I had come to the end of the false sense of security and the false personality I had built. I had slowly transformed into another copycat blogger. My thoughts were led by other writers, and not by who I was claiming to be. There was nothing malicious, just an easy trap to fall into when the focus is taken from pleasing God, put on pleasing people, and lying to myself all the while that I was doing things for God's glory when at the end, I was the only one receiving anything. 

I was left there on that Monday morning with nothing left to say. My voice was silenced. 

Hillsong's "Glorious Ruins" declares: "When mountains fall / And the tempest roars You are with me / When creation folds / still my soul will soar on Your mercy." Indeed.

The following weeks were filled with bible study, God revealing to me from His Word, a story of who I was and what I made for. My journal took on new life as I rediscovered my true voice—a voice that belonged to only me. No longer to be a copycat, but to be the unique creation that God made me. No longer interested in pleasing people, I ensured that what I did glorified God. It was a steep growth curve; it was like a rebirth, like my salvation was renewed.

"I'll walk through the fire / With my head lifted high / And my spirit revived in Your story / And I'll look to the cross / As my failure is lost / In the light of Your glorious grace," the song resounds.

Here I was at church on Tuesday night, ready to enter into the presence of the Lord. I am not quite sure what the exhortation was, I believe it had to do with seed, and dying before we grow. The speaker sat, the music played, and I began to pray. It was nothing spectacular, but that's the thing about prayer isn't it? It begins slowly, but as we persevere, God begins to speak. The still, small voice becomes louder than the screams of procrastination, frustration and fear.

I focused in on some prayer requests I had received from friends, this guided my prayer, allowed me to focus more closely on the task at hand. As I walked the aisles of the church auditorium, calling on God, my eyes were opened. It was as though my faith eyes were being opened. Praying with my eyes open is not something I usually do, but on this night, as I prayed, I was not distracted. My vision was focused. I felt closer to God than I had in months. I came out from prayer, encouraged, renewed in my faith.

"Let the ruins come to life / In the beauty of Your Name / Rising up from the ashes / God forever You reign. / And my soul will find refuge / In the shadow of Your wings / I will love You forever / And forever I'll sing."