Every night, when my house is quiet and as I’m falling asleep and after I’ve checked on my kids, I whisper the same prayer.
Thank you Jesus for this family. Please help me to be the best mom and wife I can be. Help me to be what they need. Help me to not miss this. Help me to shepherd this well.
I told a friend yesterday that I have no problem calling myself a writer. I’m not afraid of that. I am afraid of actually carving out the time to BE A WRITER. To me that feels huge and weighty and what if I fail. It feels like something that’s not neat and tidy and gosh my heart desires neat and tidy. In the midst of the endless laundry piles and the dirty dishes that won’t quit and the moving and the renovating and ballet and all the legos, my heart would love some neat and tidy.
Last night just as I drifted off to sleep thinking about this conversation with my friend and whispering my prayer, I had this thought. What if I can only be the best mom to my kids and the best wife to my husband if I make time to write? It’s not necessarily the writing or even if anyone reads it or if it ever gets published but maybe it’s about the practice. Maybe it’s about the discipline. Maybe it’s about the feeling and the showing up and the everyday in and out.
What if I can only be the mom Toby needs if I make time to write because in the writing I learn and I change and I grow and what if I never learned some of the lessons I need to be his mom? That is huge and weighty and probably a lot of pressure to put on words but something rings true about this for me.
I think about this sometimes in the business of homemaking and raising these children. Maybe it’s not about whether my kids actually ever stop fighting in the car, although that would be amazing. Maybe that’s not it at all. Maybe it’s in me showing up and continually talking to them about love and compassion and mercy. Maybe it’s not in me actually ever finishing the laundry once and for all. Is that even a thing? Doesn’t that sound glorious? Maybe it’s not that but maybe it is just continually showing up and doing the dang laundry. Maybe it’s in my family knowing that when they run out of underwear, I’ve got their back. Maybe it’s not in actually having a clean and empty sink. Maybe it’s the fact that after my family eats, I clean up. I wash and scrub and then put away. And the dishes are there for another meal and another day.
Maybe it’s different for you. Maybe it’s not in actually running the marathon but it’s in the training for it. Maybe it’s not in the actually selling of whatever that craft is that you make, maybe it’s in the quiet hours sitting and piecing things together. Maybe it’s not in the vegetables you get from the garden as much as it is in the tilling and the weeding and the care taking. Maybe it’s not in the creation or in the finished product but in who we are becoming in the process.
“And so the meaning of our lives is not dependent upon what we make of it but of what He is making of us.” - Emily P. Freeman, A Million Little Ways
I told my friend that I know I have to write. I know I am a healthier version of myself when I write. I can tell when I’ve spent too much time being a consumer- when I’ve just been watching too much TV, reading too much and scrolling too much. I can tell. I feel off and I’m comparing myself a ton. I’m snappy and crabby. I know I was made to create. My Father is the creator and I was made in His image therefore it’s in my DNA to create. I just have to do it. And I know in the doing, He is making something of me. He is doing something in my heart that perhaps He can’t do with me just sitting on my couch.
So I woke up this morning early and opened my laptop immediately and put these words down. And it feels so good.
Jesus, I don’t know what your purpose is here. But I know you are here. And these words are my oil that I’m pouring out. Take them. Use them. For your glory.