Let me start off by saying I’m not an expert in anything.
Okay, that’s a good start.
I used to have a blog that was pretty popular. I had lots of readers. A handful, you could say. On a good post, I’d catch about a thousand or so readers on a newly published piece. I did okay. I wasn’t writing for the audience, though. I wrote because that is what I pretty much consider to be my single talent. I wrote because God speaks clearly and thoroughly to me when I have a blank space and a pencil in front of me.
And then I stopped writing. For two years or so, now, I haven’t published a single piece. I used to make it a monthly goal to guest write for at least one or two blogs or publications. I was committed to a deep relationship with my Macbook and a good cup of coffee (rest in peace, University Cup). In fact, I can pinpoint the moment I told myself I should stop writing.
My husband and I had been away from the church for a few months. When we decided it was time to go back, it was more or less from pressure by my in-laws (whom we owe greatly for that pressure, now). Thankfully, we found a wonderful church with a wonderful pastor and a wonderful community. Tight-knit, the praying kind, the people who show up at your door with food and drinks when you have a hard week. They are the type of people who actually pray for you when they say they will. We had found everything I had wanted in a community from the time I moved to Maryland. We were very happy there. And then I deleted my blog. I got rid of every published piece that was associated with my name. I said goodbye to my writing. Because, I thought, if these people find out who I really am- a writer with overflowing emotions like a river in a thunderstorm, they will not want me to be apart of them anymore. Surely, all these good people cannot find any of my writing with curse words and stories of recovery and occasional prayers begging God to let me hear Him. Nope. If they read all of that, we will definitely be shut out. The freaks who got it wrong over and over and over again.
Well, thank goodness that phase is over, right?
It’s been a long, long journey. I have changed my career, had a baby, started many new adventures. It has been quite a while since my fingers have met up with these keys and they have found a rhythm together. I have done a lot of recovering. And recovery is hard. I haven’t shared a lot of what I needed to recover from, but I’m starting to think that might be an important step. I’ll get there. There is no distinct map of recovery, though. Everyone takes a different path.
Here’s the thing- I have a daughter now. And when I was newly pregnant and very sick, I laid in bed thinking about the kind of mother I wanted to be. I made many decisions about the mother I did not want to be. But I decided that there are only a few things I really want to instill in her (besides being a good and kind person who loves Jesus). I always want her to be herself. Especially in church. Because we are the church. If we are not truthful and intentional and kind and loving and grace-filled to ourselves, we absolutely can never be those things to other people. Because that’s what the Gospel is, all those things. I want her to be who God made her especially to be. I never, never want her to be afraid of talking about what saved her, or more specifically, who saved her. I want her to know that sharing your story is one of the most important things you can do in life. People need to know they are not alone. We are all in this together—I am in this with her, with our family. We can always talk about how we feel. I want her to know that for so long, I lived in a deep hole of depression so dark I thought I might never be able to crawl out. But I did. I did it, for her, for my husband, for everyone else who needs to hear stories from a person who is a professional in messing up and asking God for forgiveness every single day. I want her and the rest of the world to know that I want to live truthfully, intentionally, filled with grace for myself, and that I used every ounce of my talent to show people the light until I was bled dry of it, not a single morsel of it left in my body.
So, here I am again.
Okay, that’s a good start.
I used to have a blog that was pretty popular. I had lots of readers. A handful, you could say. On a good post, I’d catch about a thousand or so readers on a newly published piece. I did okay. I wasn’t writing for the audience, though. I wrote because that is what I pretty much consider to be my single talent. I wrote because God speaks clearly and thoroughly to me when I have a blank space and a pencil in front of me.
And then I stopped writing. For two years or so, now, I haven’t published a single piece. I used to make it a monthly goal to guest write for at least one or two blogs or publications. I was committed to a deep relationship with my Macbook and a good cup of coffee (rest in peace, University Cup). In fact, I can pinpoint the moment I told myself I should stop writing.
My husband and I had been away from the church for a few months. When we decided it was time to go back, it was more or less from pressure by my in-laws (whom we owe greatly for that pressure, now). Thankfully, we found a wonderful church with a wonderful pastor and a wonderful community. Tight-knit, the praying kind, the people who show up at your door with food and drinks when you have a hard week. They are the type of people who actually pray for you when they say they will. We had found everything I had wanted in a community from the time I moved to Maryland. We were very happy there. And then I deleted my blog. I got rid of every published piece that was associated with my name. I said goodbye to my writing. Because, I thought, if these people find out who I really am- a writer with overflowing emotions like a river in a thunderstorm, they will not want me to be apart of them anymore. Surely, all these good people cannot find any of my writing with curse words and stories of recovery and occasional prayers begging God to let me hear Him. Nope. If they read all of that, we will definitely be shut out. The freaks who got it wrong over and over and over again.
Well, thank goodness that phase is over, right?
It’s been a long, long journey. I have changed my career, had a baby, started many new adventures. It has been quite a while since my fingers have met up with these keys and they have found a rhythm together. I have done a lot of recovering. And recovery is hard. I haven’t shared a lot of what I needed to recover from, but I’m starting to think that might be an important step. I’ll get there. There is no distinct map of recovery, though. Everyone takes a different path.
Here’s the thing- I have a daughter now. And when I was newly pregnant and very sick, I laid in bed thinking about the kind of mother I wanted to be. I made many decisions about the mother I did not want to be. But I decided that there are only a few things I really want to instill in her (besides being a good and kind person who loves Jesus). I always want her to be herself. Especially in church. Because we are the church. If we are not truthful and intentional and kind and loving and grace-filled to ourselves, we absolutely can never be those things to other people. Because that’s what the Gospel is, all those things. I want her to be who God made her especially to be. I never, never want her to be afraid of talking about what saved her, or more specifically, who saved her. I want her to know that sharing your story is one of the most important things you can do in life. People need to know they are not alone. We are all in this together—I am in this with her, with our family. We can always talk about how we feel. I want her to know that for so long, I lived in a deep hole of depression so dark I thought I might never be able to crawl out. But I did. I did it, for her, for my husband, for everyone else who needs to hear stories from a person who is a professional in messing up and asking God for forgiveness every single day. I want her and the rest of the world to know that I want to live truthfully, intentionally, filled with grace for myself, and that I used every ounce of my talent to show people the light until I was bled dry of it, not a single morsel of it left in my body.
So, here I am again.