Facing the Freefall: Should I Write?

I have a confession to make: I have no idea what I’m doing.

Sure, I’m geeking out and learning like crazy. Books on writing line up on my Kindle like an auntie’s Precious Moments collection. Some credit their author’s skill by being helpfully hilarious. Others give solid scholastic advice. I’m forging ahead, gleaning wisdom, and conquering chapters.

Stepping off my beaten path, I joined Instagram. It happens to be awesome. Who knew? Everyone else, right? Now tell me why I should start Twitter. I’ll listen.

I’ve wrestled and fought with words, held up my end of the dream the Lord put on my heart in April: one blog post a week. This will be #12.

I thought it would get easier as I went along.

But still it happens. Every time I put my words in this space.

It’s like the moment I walked onto the field at Family Camp and saw my firstborn being hoisted higher and higher, the intersection point of three ropes. Wow. That’s my girl up there so brave.

Then two ropes let go.

My heart leapt to my throat as she fell. I thought I was witnessing her death. But the last rope caught her in a beautiful, life-giving arc. She swang. I began to breathe again, realizing that was the plan all along.

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This writing thing?  This is my “Do Hard Things” thing. It takes major effort to lift and pull words off the ground. Editing bingo is a compulsive pastime; I lay ideas on the board and look for patterns, praying for connections to bridge the gap between what the Lord is doing in me and what might encourage others.

Then there’s the transparent moment of publication—when the only thing to hold onto is the Lord’s goodness. Freefall, where his truth alone turns the splat into an upward arc.

I want you to like my words because I want you to like me. But those ropes don’t hold.

And I realize this was the Lord’s plan all along. How better to know his heart than to learn to let go of everything else? Stats of my site views and visitors. Likes and comments on Facebook. The little red hearts on Instagram. I cherish each one.

But the only support that can hold the weight of who I am is Him. He’s the one who changes my falling into flying.

I love words like my boys love legos. I get lost for hours in their colors and shapes, trying to create something special.  At times, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing, spending so much of myself on what doesn’t come easy. Does it make a difference?

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A friend messaged me a giddyup the other day, screenshots from Jen Hatmaker’s latest, Of Mess and Moxie.

“Doctors put in the work to be good doctors. Teachers do the work to be phenomenal teachers. Budding creators cannot imagine themselves beyond the need for development or unworthy of the investment, paycheck or no paycheck. Worry less about getting recognized and more about becoming good at what you do. Take yourself seriously. Take your art seriously. You are both worth this.”

Does it make a difference? Does beauty or struggle, obedience or surrender in any area of our lives matter to the one who sees and supports it all?  I have to say yes. And if it pleases him, then all the rest is wonderful grace.

I may still not know what I’m doing, but I know the one who does.

Guess what just jumped to the top of my reading list?

Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up. Galatians 6:9 NIV


Is there a struggle you are pressing through to engage a dream? Please leave a comment and share your story.

Swing Photo by Artem Bali on Unsplash

Making Home

I couldn’t help but smile when I saw it.  During the official welcome of our family in an Hogar de Vida staff meeting, I glanced down at my sandaled feet.  Little white freckles peeped happily back up at me.

There was flour dusting my toes.

I didn’t even brush it off.  My heart was so content with our welcome and the baking spree that had decorated me.  That morning my mixer had labored over wheat bread for our family, cinnamon rolls for the meeting, and rolls for the team’s dinner.  I was tired, but happy.  This is what I was made to do.

That feeling has warmed my heart many times over the last few weeks.  We’ve hosted three teams from pickup to drop off, shared meals and the story of God’s work in our lives, shopped, cooked, cleaned, sanded, painted, and learned names to match beautiful faces.  On the trail behind us are a good many “firsts,” marking out the path to the feeling of “home.”  I have carried a one month old new arrival from the house tia’s arms to a medical eval, feeling the flutters of first-mom jitters all over again.  We now know just where to put the glass in the refrigerator to catch the condensation runoff that’s supposed to be routed below, and where to get our favorite produce at the farmers market.  We can see the work the Lord is doing here, and the difference that it makes every day.

Familiarity has paved the way.  Evenings spent reading books aloud on our couch, early mornings hanging laundry.   Goodnight kisses, Spanish greetings, movie nights, and bright sunrises.  My running shoes have ventured out to tread the hills, and my lungs have caught up.  Joy has come again.

We are home.