Writing the Book

Somewhere in the South, near the coast of the Atlantic Ocean, lives a family. And I'm the mom and wife to it. I'm a lover of life, a collector of stories (and sea glass), a shower singer, an amateur painter, and a deep lover of the written word. For many years I've quoted myself saying, "that will make the book." But in truth, raising 4 children, teaching kindergarten and participating in life, lands me here. So here we are instead, for now.

I've traveled many roads, in my life, and all of them feel best when I'm writing about them. Some people feel uncomfortable writing down their stories, for the permanence of the written word feels like too much, or maybe seeing their stories written down makes it seem like they're being opulent or not doing the story justice. I feel all of those things, too. I hesitate to write, and yet it ministers to me when I do. I close my eyes when I press "post" because I worry what readers will think. But quietly, I still write. Sometimes it's just notes or quotes, sometimes scripture verses or moments of private revelation. But I write.

And then I stare at what is written. I pour over the words my own hands have typed, or scribbled, and they bring me to new places. Most often places of new hope. Hope is the result of years of perseverance.

Farmed faith is what I'm calling it.

It's a life that has chosen to cultivate something worth hoping for. Something that is yet to be seen but is a deep hope of an invisible thing not yet come to pass. Ground turned and new oxygen touching each granule, and carefully, new seed laid down. Farming is always a process. It's pulling weeds, watching the weather, protecting, nurturing, choosing what to put on and in the soil, what to plant and then how and when to harvest.

That's the intentional life, isn't it? So toiled and tattered are the fields of a farm. Filled with footprints from the farmer, but also the creatures that lurk in to steal the fresh new fruit. So straight and symmetrical are the rows - so beautiful a picture of what's to come. And yet sometimes we see farms burned up in the sun, unable to produce harvest for a time. Passing by, years later, we see full rows again and we smile and think: there must've been a good season of rain.

Isn't that life?

It's so much trial and error. It's full of pain and suffering. Desperate perseverance, often with quick breaths of prayers that sound as simple as, "help". Seasons of wandering and wondering. The prayers of a young heart, that were so confident and sure, are left tattered at the ends of hope - the one who prayed them left confused: will this ever come to pass? Was I just casting hope into nothingness?

And then it happens. It rains.

This blog will be a place to come to for me to try to express my heart - sometimes covered and hidden out of grief and shame and sometimes totally honest and exposed when I'm feeling brave.

I'll also uncover some of the ways I cope, the reasons I laugh, how I bargain hunt for clothes and make joy out of circumstances I wish never were but how I refuse to give up on enjoying life even in the midst.