One of my biggest fears,
is that there’s nothing new to say.
Hence my significant lack of writing in 2019.
Granted, 2019 kicked my butt.
And to my knowledge, when one’s butt is being kicked, writing is a challenge. It’s difficult to know what to share and not share,
what to groan about,
what to shut up about,
what to confess,
what to keep close,
what to protest,
what to accept.
In the muck and mire of seasons not preferred, my mind takes over my mouth and fingers. I stop talking, stop writing. All the while, my mind buzzes with burning questions, overplayed scenarios, nightly nightmares, deeply felt doubts.
And whenever I feel this way, I feel dramatic. Like an actor in a soap or cavity-ridden Hallmark film. A big sister-friend tells me I enter a room like a ball of sunshine, and I wear that compliment as a badge of honor. I like being a ball of sunshine for you, for me. Because it’s too easy to look left or right and find darkness. Somebody’s got to spread a little light, and I don’t mind doing it when I can.
But eclipses happen.
A night before my 31st birthday, around 3 a.m., I woke up to my mind writing out a post for you. It went something like this:
At 30, I fell and scraped both knees, and refused to get up for six months.
At 30, I discovered the beauty in pebbles, sheep grazed-grass, sore muscles, and mountain air.
At 30, I sought security outside of my safe place.
At 30, a big sister-friend told me I did the scariest thing she could think of.
Because at 30, I took a long, hard look at the Lord. Then I turned around, and I walked away.
At 30, my sunlight dimmed, my battery ran low.
At 30, my children inspired laughter and produced weariness.
The hardest year of motherhood yet.
At 30, my journals gathered dust.
At 30, I gazed out at a sparkling ocean and didn’t smile with my eyes.
At 30, I read Ecclesiastes and felt understood.
At 30, I listened to a foreign language, and felt understood.
At 30, I dreamed about a yellow house and the shearing of sheep, and felt understood.
For the Lord remains ever-present.
At 30, I popped my knuckles and threw away my tissues.
At 30, I stood up one leg at a time.
And allowed my knees to heal.
At 30, I muscled up, buttercup.
I did things scared.
At 30, I inhaled resilience and exhaled stress.
My sides no longer ache.
At 30, the eclipse made way for shine.
And at 31,
I found something new to say.