STOP RUNNIN’, CHER : WHEN THE CREATOR CALLS YOUR NAME, DON’T MAKE HIM LEAVE A VOICEMAIL.

STOP RUNNIN’, CHER : WHEN THE CREATOR CALLS YOUR NAME, DON’T MAKE HIM LEAVE A VOICEMAIL.

A Reflection on Surrenderin’ to Your Gifts, Your Purpose, and the Goodness You Keep Dodgin’

By Kateb Shunnar

I been running for so long that if the Olympics had a category for “Spiritual Duck-and-Dodge,” I woulda brought home gold for the whole 7th Ward. I ain’t lying I didn’t want to write, I didn’t want to speak, I didn’t want nobody askin’ me about purpose, calling, none of that. I wanted to be a full-fledged marathon runner in the rat race of life, sprinting past every single sign The Creator dropped in my lap like He was throwing beads off a Mardi Gras float. And me? I ducked. I dodged. I bobbed and weaved like I was shadowboxing with destiny on St. Bernard Avenue.

I ran like the rent was due and destiny was the landlord banging on the door with a flashlight and a clipboard. I told myself, “Not me, Creator… you must be lookin’ for somebody else.” Oh, I tried to hide too tucked my spirit in dark corners like it was a pair of fresh Jordans I didn’t want nobody scuffin’. Tried to bury my gifts deep like a treasure I didn’t feel worthy to own. But here’s the plot twist: The Creator don’t care nothing about your hiding spots. He’ll tap your shoulder right in the aisle of Rouses on Carrollton while you reaching for almond milk you know you not gon’ drink.

My grandmother, Celestine that woman, The Creator rest her beautiful soul used to tell me, “Boy, don’t get cute with The Creator. You ain’t got enough hide nor hair to play peek-a-boo with the One who made your behind.” She said, “There’s only two times you give thanks: when you feel like it and when you don’t.” And baby, when she said it, she meant it. She’d give thanks with the same energy she used to stir a pot of gumbo consistent, circular, deliberate. She said perspective was everything. “If your glass look half empty, go wash it and pour somethin’ in it.”

She also had this saying: “If The Creator brought you to it, He’ll bring you through it.” And trust me, sometimes I wanted to ask her, “But granny , can He bring me around it?”

But no. Through it. Straight through like the Lafitte Greenway on a good day.

And still I ran.

And ran.

And kept running until I was tired, funky, spiritually out of gas, and holding a half-broken map upside-down wondering why every street I turned on felt like a dead end. Every time I chased something else jobs, money, people who had no business near my soul it felt like I was on a hamster wheel powered by anxiety and caffeine. I kept jumping city to city like I was hiding from a warrant, but really, I was hiding from myself.

See, The Creator don’t need GPS. He will find you in Atlanta, Houston, or right back home in the East like, “You done yet?”

And still I ran.

Until one day, something shifted. I remembered that moment clear as sunshine on Jackson Square. My grandmother opened this mystery envelope I don’t know where it came from or who sent it. She went from a blank face to one of them smiles that make the whole living room brighten up. And then she belted out from the top of her lungs, “Get up if you on the Lord’s side!” And baby, she shook the walls. The letter, whatever it was, changed something in her. And in us. And I never forgot that transformation. It was like The Creator tapped her spirit and whispered, “I told you I had you.”

And that stuck with me even while I was running, even when I pretended like I didn’t hear my calling loud and clear.

Let me tell you something that may sting a little:

You can’t be disobedient and at peace at the same time.

I tried. I promise you I tried. It lasted about 6 minutes and a headache.

Every time I said no to what The Creator wanted me to do whether it was write, grow, speak, forgive, show up, stay still something in me twisted wrong. Like wearing shoes that look good but got the nerve to be two sizes too small. My heart wasn’t ripe. My spirit wasn’t aligned. My mind was acting like a drunk uncle at a barbecue loud, stumbling, and saying things nobody asked for.

And let’s be honest: running from your purpose is exhausting. You ever tried hiding from your own shadow? That’s what it’s like. You can hop on the boat going the wrong direction, but guess who’s on that boat too? Yep. You.

Disobedience is always a downward escalator you keep moving even when you standing still, but baby, you goin’ the wrong way.

Our gifts ain’t random. They’re tied to people we haven’t met yet somebody waiting on the exact thing The Creator tucked inside us. Some folks can’t heal, can’t grow, can’t breathe right until we step into what we were born to do. It’s bigger than us. Always has been.

But let me break it down with a lil’ story a fresh, original folklore straight out of the Crescent City:

THE FOLKLORE OF OLD TIBEAUX AND THE CALLIN’ HE COULDN’T OUTRUN

Now!…. back in the day not too far back, but before the price of beignets skyrocketed there was a fella named Tibeaux Thibodeaux LaBranch, born right off St. Claude, raised somewhere between his grandma’s lap and the corner po-boys on Elysian Fields. Tibeaux had a calling. A real one. The Creator told him clear as daylight, “Son, I need you to play the trumpet. Not for fame, not for money but to lift spirits that been saggin’ like power lines after a storm.”

But baby… Tibeaux ain’t want no parts of that. He wanted to be a professional sleeper. A nap-taker. A man dedicated to minding his business and eating red beans on Monday like The Creator intended.

Problem was, every time he ran from his calling, something ridiculous happened. If he skipped practice, his shoes would disappear. If he ignored a performance, his trumpet would play by itself at 3 A.M., waking up the whole block. Folks said The Creator Himself was tired of Tibeaux’s foolishness.

One day, Tibeaux hopped on the Algiers Ferry thinking he could escape his destiny by floating across the river. As soon as the ferry pulled off, the seagulls I kid you not started shouting, “PLAY, BOY, PLAY!” in perfect harmony.

Tibeaux fell to his knees like, “Creator, is that You?”

And The Creator said, “Who else you know gon’ use seagulls to get your attention?”

Tibeaux finally played and the sound that came out that trumpet made the Mississippi pause for a second like it was listening. Even the mosquitoes stopped biting for a moment of reverence (and you KNOW that’s divine intervention).

From that day on, Tibeaux never ran again. And the city never forgot the boy who tried to outrun his calling… and lost to seagulls.

Now why did I tell you that story?

Because you just like Tibeaux. And so am I.

Running only makes things more dramatic. And trust me, The Creator ain’t above using whatever He gotta use: dreams, strangers, seagulls, that one auntie who always knows too much, or your own restless spirit waking you up at 4:44 AM whispering, “Stop playin’.”

We can clap our hands all day, shout, praise, dance at church, tune into livestream sermons from churches we don’t even belong to but at some point The Creator gon’ ask:

“So… when you gon’ do what I asked you to do?”

Sometimes we keep asking for signs when we full well know we ain’t do nothing with the last five signs we got. You don’t need to dig in people’s closets. You don’t need horoscopes, tarot readings, tea leaves, or an emotional scavenger hunt. Signs supposed to chase you, not the other way around.

But we stubborn. Prideful. Hard-headed like stale French bread. And pride? Baby, pride will have you thinking you the GPS for your own life when you can’t even find your charger.

Humility now that’s where the growth sprouts up. Humility is where you get real quiet and honest, like, “Okay, Creator… I don’t know what I’m doing. Help me before I embarrass us both.” That’s when the breakthroughs roll in like a second line.

It’s always been better to give than to receive because giving puts you in alignment with the flow of the universe. And we need things money can’t buy anyway: peace, compassion, clarity, dignity, healing… and the courage to step into your assignment without throwing a tantrum.

Let’s be real: The Creator’s voice don’t mute just because you covering your ears. If you keep running, life will feel like you hitchhiked on the wrong boat the one going the opposite direction of your blessings. And the thing about the wrong direction? It always goes downhill. Always.

You can try to outrun The Creator, but baby… your arms too short.

Let me encourage you right quick, in case nobody told you today:

Stop avoiding the life designed for you.

Stop putting your calling on voicemail.

Stop treating your gifts like side hustles when they were meant to be your legacy.

Stop saying “one day” when The Creator keeps whispering “today.”

Your gifts are bigger than your comfort zone.

Your purpose is louder than your excuses.

Your destiny is stronger than your fears.

And running? Running is cute until you realize you can’t sprint away from what’s inside you. Purpose will hunt you down like a hungry mosquito in July. Gifts will nag you. Calling will scratch at your soul like a cat you tried to shut out the room persistent, loud, and not going anywhere.

And let me speak from my own heart I ran because I felt unworthy, unsure, overwhelmed. I didn’t want to write. Didn’t want to share. Didn’t want to open my mouth like I had something valuable to add. I tried to hide behind life’s chaos, behind long days and longer nights. I wanted to blend in, be small, be quiet.

But The Creator didn’t make me small. Didn’t make me quiet. Didn’t give me a pen just for doodles. My pen is a paintbrush and I’ve been commissioned to paint stories, reflections, truths, colors, emotions, and realities that ain’t just for me. They’re for whoever needs them, whoever been praying for something that sounds familiar. Whoever been running their whole life like I did.

And so I write.

Even when I’m scared.

Even when it hurts.

Even when the words come out crooked.

Even when my spirit shakes like the St. Charles streetcar on old tracks.

I write because The Creator said so.

And I finally stopped running long enough to say yes.

So let me tell you the same thing I had to tell myself:

Answer the call.

The phone is ringing.

And baby..... it’s for you.

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