I was told by a smart turtle in Publishing Town,
That deadlines are missed—so often pushed down.
But meet them on time, and folks point and exclaim,
“That writer’s exceptional. Remember his name.”
I tell myself stories. Oh, yes… I confess.
But sometimes I say no, and other times, yes.
On weekdays, I’m up early, ready for the fight,
But on Saturdays, I think sleeping late is all right.
Why is early so easy when people can see,
When their expectations are staring at me?
But take away watchers, whistles, and stares,
And discipline wobbles right out of their chairs.
I once wrote for sermons with a Thursday target,
And devotions by Wednesday for the email market.
For some reason I thought I couldn’t be late.
The deadline stood firm like a well-guarded gate.
Was it fear of opinions? Of looks or of sighs?
Of letting folks down with their judgmental eyes?
Perhaps it was purpose that sharpened my pen,
Knowing my work mattered right there and then.
So what do we do when self-discipline naps,
When focus goes wandering, taking long laps?
We borrow some purpose, meaning, and why,
And work because the Lord is watching nearby.
Not fear—but commitment. Not guilt—but a call,
To show up with faithfulness, stumbles and all.
For deadlines are mirrors that quietly say,
“Who are you becoming by your choices today?”
