The day is moving along but the fog outside has intensified. By nine it should be dissipating, driven away by the newness of the day and the sun shining bright. But today, this second day of the year, it’s worsening.
Sadness crept into my heart in much the same way. When things should be the most joyful, sadness can be as the fog, thick and relentless. In some ways I welcome it, that old familiar feeling. I allow myself to wallow in my surroundings, in the things that shouldn’t be, but are.
I want to feel entitled to my sadness. I want to feel justification that the world is against me and that life is harder for me than those around me.
Selfishness is the root of sadness.
I needed to climb out of the hole of self-pity, but first I needed to let myself cry. To feel the feelings that God gave me, even if they are no indication of the life He has for me or the nature of His goodness.
I spent evenings in the ambiance of the Christmas tree lamenting what doesn’t seem quite right. Selfishness gave way to self-reflection and I could hear God calling me to more.
I remembered years past, the sewing, the painting, the embroidery that I would put my identity in for a while because I saw others doing it and knew I could too. Then I was tired and burnt out with no time or space left for projects. These four, almost five, children have taken up every nook and cranny of our small house.
God began highlighting how important creating is for my own, wait for the dreaded word, self-care. But self-care isn’t selfish if it connects me with my Creator.
I thought back to the prophetic word I received last spring, the one about how I would write and that would snowball into big and beautiful things. The word that I’ve tucked in my back pocket just waiting for God to make happen. It turns out sometimes He’s just waiting for us to make the move.
Writing requires nothing more than a pencil and a piece of paper and certainly I have plenty of room for that. My laptop easily slides under the couch for a few words here and there.
Always something I’ve dabbled in for a few months and then lost interest or inspiration, God has prompted me to look past the need for “inspiration” and just put words on a page on a regular basis. He’s pushing me out of my comfort zone.
I want to write short stories, maybe an entire novel someday. Not today, not tomorrow, but soon enough that will feel possible. I just need more practice.
Brad is the writer in this family, but who says there can’t be more than one? It only makes sense to take advantage of living with the best editor I know, the one who has taught me everything I know about writing.
To top it off, I get a pretty good discount.