I’m not sure exactly when this was, perhaps sometime around the late 1970s. I would have been in my late 30s. I’d recently been to Singapore to draw a full-length comic book for the missionaries and was doing a regular cartoon feature for our foreign mission magazine out of Richmond, Virginia. Cartooning was getting to be a big thing in my life, even if it didn’t always fit in with my work as pastor of a Southern Baptist church in a county seat town in Mississippi.
At some point, it began mattering too much.
That’s when I quit.
I recall giving it back to the Lord–literally laying it on His altar–and saying, “This is yours, Father. If I never draw again, it’s fine. Thy will be done.”
Now, I had started drawing as a preschooler. Mom put my little sister Carolyn and me at the kitchen table with pencil and paper and told us to sit there and “Draw!” Her intent was not to teach us to do anything other than stay out of her way as she cleaned the house. But I made the discovery that day.