I miss writing. Somewhere in the busy-ness of life, the long days of toddler-hood and mommy-hood and working and being tired and being lazy and using my time for better things and using my time for worse things…I never write anymore. I lost myself in this weird, internet-y, blogging world. Too much “what do I want to say” and “what is my voice” and “what’s my story” and I forgot to just…write. Not to write because I want to change the world, or because it’s fun to get comments, or even because there’s something I want to say. Writing just to write–just to see the words fill the page, just to forced to put feelings into words, whether they make sense or not. Writing just because it’s good to stop for a minute. Writing because maybe then I’ll notice things more–I’ll remember to listen to those litte thoughts in my mind that I push away because I’m tired or lazy or busy. I’ll need to think about those little fears in the middle of the night, the things that make me smile most during the day. To put words to how sweet this life is with these little people, and words to those days that I’m sure I won’t survive raising them.
These months of not writing have been so full–full of friendships and growing (physically AND emotionally!) full of heartache and loss, full of laughter and tears, and I wish I’d written. I wish I’d written about seeing God’s grace when my friend lost her baby and seeing her strength. Seeing his provision in protecting a very sick baby of another friend. Dealing with the guilt of wondering why my own baby seems to be growing healthy and strong while other people deal with such great loss. Wondering which part of those losses is part of MY story, a story of grace God is entwining into my own pregnancy. These months have been letting go and making room–trying to let go of things that get in the way of pursuing Him. Trying to get my heart (and more recently, our home) ready to welcome in another son, wondering practical things like “How in the world will I ever leave the house with all of these little people attached to me??” and less practical things like “How much hair will he have?” These months have been filled with conversations and goals and new jobs and more new jobs and trying to figure out current jobs and finances.
And so my new goal is to write. Not with an introduction and a body and a conclusion; not with a knowing why. But writing just because I can, and because I love it, and because I need it. And because somewhere along the way, I am sure I have a story to tell. Sometimes it’s comedy and sometimes it’s tragedy and sometimes its poetry. And sometimes, it might be the word vomit of a frazzled working mama who just needs to spill her guts. But conclusion or not, I know the journey is not mine, it’s His. And it is He who writes my story. So for now, I’m just thankful–for the little people I get to call mine, for the family, the friends, and the precious gift of words to remember these moments.