I kept waffling. I would hear a song, or read something inspiring in a book, maybe have a conversation, and I would decide, resolve right then that I would start writing again. But my computer time is at bedtime, and night would come, bleary-eyed and worn, and the thoughts that seemed so sharp in the daylight would melt away and slip through my fingers like the last bits of Popsicle in July.
Maybe I’ll just check Facebook.
And so it was for ten months. I have written little and published nothing. But I have squirmed. I had nothing to say but no peace about silence. I couldn’t stop thinking about blogging.
But one morning I knew.
I was sitting in church, balancing baby and Cheerios and a little red race car. And suddenly, it hit me. For the ten months that I had had nothing to say, I had been living a story, a story with God as the Hero. I had seen countless everyday miracles. And I had already forgotten most of them. I need to be blogging, not because I have something profound to teach the world from the depths of my own brilliant Google research or striking, fresh conclusions about the meaning of life, neatly packaged by one too young to be packaging up anything more than cookies, but because we are called to be witnesses. And this is what I can witness.
So I’m back, trying again. I don’t even know if anybody still checks my blog. But God is here, sustaining a stay-at-home wife and mom with six small children, a woman who messes up daily, fights for joy, and sometimes burns the breakfast sausage. And I have a story to tell.
