Mostly, it's for all of us who have made a friend of fear.
It's for the woman trying so hard to find herself again.
It's for all of us confused about where our real self lives and that she never really left.
I woke up thinking it would be fun to post another throwback today, something I wrote on this exact day, a few years back. As luck would have it, or maybe because I used to post 5-6 times a week (HOW did I sustain that for so long? And why? Questions for Jesus.) I had plenty of 5-21-** options. As even bigger luck would have it, I found a draft, something I wrote but never published.
I rarely draft anything. I'm a total Pantser, sitting down at the computer, pouring my guts out, and hitting publish. I don't let much simmer. Who knows what must have happened on the 21st day, three May's ago, in the Betty Draper Rental. I'm guessing it had something to do with the wiry toddler I might have literally been wrestling.
(This is what my kids looked like exactly 3 years ago. Please note the random small objects in Silas's hand. Marker - check (the better to deface personal property!) Medicine Dropper - check (that was the year he called medicine "funameen". More questions for Jesus.))
Reading my dusty words today, in the light of the change and sureness that only comes with the slow passing of years, I see God's steady hand at work.
It's a beautiful reminder to me, forever in the midst of change, that my anchor is the wide expanse of Him, not the confines of a property line, not a zip code. He leads us, yes, but He also walks beside us. I happen to need both.
(This is what my neighbor's peony bush looked like three years ago, but now I'm just torturing myself.)
The post sat in my drafts because it was unfinished. You'll see that it drops off the cliff, right at the end. No closure. No pink bow.
That's perfect for all of us, today and every day. This is our wild life, always ready to surprise us, poised to shock and stretch us, persistently proving and re-proving that the best things happen when we jump right into the flow, jangled nerves, honest insecurities and all.
I'm feeling mad love for you, friends.
Who knows how today might go down in the books?
Enough - Written May 21, 2012
I'm sitting here with my feet propped up on the coffee table - this, the only time of the day I sit with the computer on my lap. There's a really cute guy to my right with a computer on his lap. Three different shades of brown drift off to sleep down the hall. Just past the screen, a full choir of birds make the most of the fading day. It's quiet, the kind of peaceful ending that pulls us tighter on the inside.
Less than a year ago I looked out my kitchen window at acres of hay and wondered if you could take the country out of the girl. Would I be the same person, standing there on a different plot of dirt? So I made a pact with myself - I would surprise everyone and be the very same girl. I'd surprise myself. I'd move into a beige rental and shove the toys in the corner of the living room, I'd wash every spoon by hand and hum while I did it. I wouldn't miss the past. I didn't need pretty. I'd be living proof that when God makes you go, it's nothing short of freeing and bright.
Here's one thing I learned: Never make a pact with yourself. Especially when it involves the impossible seeing of the future.
This move was not smooth or sparkling. It wasn't legendary. It wasn't brag-worthy. The hidden condition of my heart made me ashamed, so I started doing what I am prone to do: I began exposing it. I got bluesy and whiny and I made sure people saw it, because it was the truth. Sharing the truth seems to help me really see the truth, which happens to include the following:
I am worried that my children will not be hardy and creative if they grow up in town.
I want to kick people in the teeth when they say about country living, "It's such a perfect place to raise children", even thought it's true.
I don't care as much about keeping my house tidy when it's not really my house.
I get grumpy when my house isn't tidy.
I cry sometimes when I think of Springtime on our farm.
I get jealous when people talk about their gardens.
I believe my mojo was buried somewhere near the corner flower bed on County Road 3.
I miss my trinkets.
Having pictures on the wall matters to me.
I like natural light in my bathroom and an absence of swine-flesh tile.
If I can't have a dishwasher, no one should have a dishwasher.
It was easy to tell myself that I'd handle it all like a champ, back when I wasn't handling it at all. I thought I knew so much. Things got scarier when it was game-time and I realized I wasn't taking pictures anymore because nothing seemed worthy. Nothing was good enough anymore.
What was your life like exactly three years ago? What has changed? How have you stayed the same?
I'm all ears.