By Lisa T. Bergren
The screenwriter who wrote the Academy’s Picture of the Year, The King’s Speech, was an Englishman who was just a boy when King George VI took the throne (when his brother unexpectedly abdicated to marry his American divorcee bride). At the time, David Seidler struggled mightily with a stutter, and to see his king do the same was monumental. Moreover, when he saw his king overcome the stutter, it encouraged him to try to do so too.
All grown up, Seidler wanted to write about King George’s journey, as a screenwriter. But as a loyal Englishman, he wrote to the Queen Mother to ask her permission. Months later, she wrote back, begging him not to pursue the project, citing her own emotional anguish over those years and her desire to not relive it “in her lifetime.” Seidler set the project aside. He said that when you’re a loyal Englishman, and your queen asks you to do something, you do it.
Twenty-eight years later, after the queen died, Seidler felt he was cleared to finally tell the story that had so greatly impacted his own life. The rest is history—the success, the glory. But what strikes me most was Seidler’s utter obedience. Despite his own passion, despite what the story meant to him, when his queen asked him to do something, he did it. It probably hurt to let it go, but he did it anyway.
I want to learn how to obey my King in such a way. To lay aside my own crown. To bow at His feet and simply do as He asks.
Less of mine, more of His. Less of mine, more of His. Less of mine, more, so much more, of His.
My kingdom’s finite, ultimately doomed. His is eternal, everlasting. May I learn how to invest in His, more and more…