Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways be mindful of Him, and he will make your paths straight.

— Prv 3:5-6

Many years ago, I was living in Rome, Italy, and going through a very tumultuous moment. After having lived a fairly sheltered and protected life, things had taken a definite turn for the worse. I found myself living in a foreign country with little or no money—and with important family responsibilities to fulfill. Life seemed very scary in that moment, like a long and dark tunnel stretching to the unknown. But God had already provided some light at the end of it.

I had come back strongly to the Catholic faith of my childhood and had begun working part time at Vatican Radio. I was also doing some editing of doctoral theses for priests at the two of the pontifical colleges—the Gregorian and the Angelicum—in Rome. And, for the first time in my life, I was receiving very powerful spiritual direction and was also fortunate to belong to a very strong prayer community. Still, life was a day-to-day struggle, and there seemed no end to it in sight. At least, in my sight.

But it was at this dark moment when I decided that this might be the moment to do something I had always longed to do: I decided to write a book. A novel. In the past, I had always associated writing with quiet and with peace. I told myself I would start in on my dream when I’d gotten everything “under control” and, of course, that perfect moment had never arrived. I was uncertain about how I would finish my novel—or even begin it. What I was living through at the time consumed me and made it seem like the worst possible moment to start something new. But the urge to write stayed with me. And one day I decided: Why not try?

But my internal doubt and resistance didn’t stop. Every time I sat down to write something, I found myself freezing up, procrastinating, doing anything and everything that would distract me from doing what I had set out to do. Many times this took the form of recriminations. And I had quite a list of them—things I had done and left undone, mistakes I had made and wrong choices. Litanies of failures and doubts recited themselves in my mind for days that stretched into weeks and then months. I was making no progress. And, perhaps, worse, I labeled my inertia as humility. Who am I to think I could write a novel? But, truthfully, I was overly concentrated on myself. It was almost as though I believed I was my own creator and could leave my true Creator out of the picture. What God might want for me—or want me to do—didn’t count.

All this changed one bright, sunny Friday during Lent, as I was walking through the Piazza della Republica on my way to Mass. Rome is particularly lovely in the springtime, as the days move on toward Easter. All around me was a city bursting with new life. But, as usual, my thoughts were centered on myself—thinking about my work, thinking about the novel I wasn’t writing. My mind was closed in on itself, when suddenly I heard the words: Stop being so self-centered and selfish. Do the work that I sent you here to do.

The voice was not unkind, but it was quite firm. And the words were so clear to me that at first I thought they had been spoken aloud. They were not, but they were still loud enough to set me to pondering. Was I, indeed, being selfish by spending so much time contemplating why I couldn’t do something that God might want me to do, rather than actually doing it? And maybe more important, was there ego and fear (and maybe even a desire to control) hiding out behind a mask of seeming humility and unworthiness? Suppose people I revered (some of them saints) had thought that?

I reflected on Scripture: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and do not rely on your own insight.” I took these words deeply into the dark and scary places in my own heart. I decided right then to concentrate more on God and what he might want me to do, rather than on myself and what I felt I couldn’t do. “In all thy ways, acknowledge him and he will make your paths straight.” I prayed with these words and, perhaps more important, I lived with them. I yielded to God. I let him take over and transform me. And not just specifically in the area of my work, but I endeavored to do this in every choice or decision I was called upon to make. Even the smallest ones.

This practice transformed my life. The change didn’t happen overnight. In fact, I am still very much a work in progress. But from that day forward, the light at the end of the tunnel has grown brighter and brighter. I did eventually finish that novel as well as the others that have come after it. I am now a writing instructor at a major university, able to help others to move forward with their own dreams. And while all this is gratifying, I am most grateful for the lesson I learned: to trust not in my own limited self but in God and his goodness and his loving pathway. Things have not always been easy since that day in the Piazza della Repubblica, but the illumination from that Light has never failed me.

Deborah Johnson is the author of The Air Between Us, which received the Mississippi Library Association Award for fiction. She now lives in Columbus, Mississippi.