A Celebration Of Sorts

To be honest, I’ve always wanted to be a writer. To be able to make sense of the world around me in words strung together on a page—in neat, organized rows of black and white—describing the things I see and feel and the things that others see and feel, all perfectly wrapped up like a nice, little gift. It makes me feel studious and put together and creative in a fresh kind of way.

But here’s the thing, the big scary thing I also need to admit: writing itimidates me. Paralizes me, really. And most days, trying to arrange my thoughts in order to write them down or type them out actually feels very chaotic and scattered, like pieces of gift wrap and ribbons and crinkle cut paper all littered about on the floor. And even though that sounds dramatic—and I know it is—the reality is this: when I think I have all the words I want to say, there they just sit in my brain. And there are so many of them, that it will take some good time and hard work to sort out all the puzzle pieces that are inevitably mixed together at this point. & in the energy it takes to try and sort through the chaos of clashing ideas and phrases and find all the corner pieces first, I start to forget where I’m going and what I’m thinking about and doubt that any of this will ever make sense to anyone. And mostly, I’m scared that even if I write it all down—my personal stories and life experiences and lessons learned—will be at best, boring? And at worse, expose a hobby I am actually, really horrible at. And so, I just stay comfortable and quiet and frozen with this fear.

But here is the other thing, the more important thing. Right now as I am writing this, it is September 18, 2022 at 3:29pm. I’m sitting in a cozy coffee shop, sipping hazelnut coffee, watching the busy world outside shift into a slower pace of life as autumn sets in, making its slow & steady return—just on time, as usual. And today, I came intentionally to write. To just start, somewhere. Even if it’s a flurry of random sentences and untidy thoughts and my process isn’t refined or maybe there’s actually no process at all, yet. Because what I’ve come to believe is this: that the stories and experiences and lessons in my life of twenty six years do matter. Not because I am anything special on my own, but they matter because every person has a story and every single story matters. & these stories—different and unique as they all are—are far from boring. They are bursting with color and anticipation and depth and have the potential to reach in and touch the deepest parts of ourselves, reminding us of who we are, who we were made to be, and can change us in the best of ways if we just have the courage to share them. 

I’m learning that writing, among many other creative things, is act of worship to God. He is the One that crafted these gifts and passions together inside each of us from the very beginning, so to write, to paint, to sing, to dance, to cook, to capture a photo, to create in any capacity is to celebrate our God who is the ultimate creator, the most breathtaking artist, the writer of the best story.

& quite honestly, I’ve wanted to start writing, not for the masses or for the influence or anything like that; I want to write for my future self—even my future family—because there are moments and feelings and emotions right now that I don’t want to forget. I don’t want to forget the deeply-rooted desire and longing I have to be married, yet I’m still here as a very single young adult, reaching my late twenties, and all the complexities and fears and emotions that I’ve had to work through—that I’m still working through. I don’t want to forget the overwhelming nature of beauty that I see in the little things all around me everyday. I don’t want to forget the daily surrender of myself to my Savior; the need I feel to cling to Him for strength and endurance in this next 24 hours. I don’t want to forget the sweetest friendships in this season; the joys and laughs and sorrows and struggles we get to share with each other as our stories are delicately woven together. There are many things I don’t want to forget.

But I also want to remember the hours and days and years that are here and then suddenly gone. I want to remember how I see God working—nudging and convicting and healing and redeeming and restoring. There’s something really beautiful about that. I want to remember my identity in Christ that overcomes the crippling fear of man, something that can so easily capture my attention. I don’t want to be entangled by others’ perception of me, not only missing out on the freedom found in surrendering the prideful desire to look good in front of others, but miss the opportunities to hold these fleeting moments & share them in a real and raw way. I want to remember the things I am learning and growing through today that, through the years, will change me for the better.

So here I am, writing. Starting something new at the start of a new season. The sweet pairing of that reality is something to be celebrated, something I am very much looking forward to.

——

(Also, the coffee shop I mentioned… it’s just Panera. As much as I wish it was a cool, indie café, it’s pretty nice here too. Even a chain restaurant can have a kind of ambience to savor. & apart from the ‘cut & paste’ feel it can sometimes have, there’s still a spot at the table to make my own, even if it’s just for a few hours. And for that, I am grateful.)