Sometimes, out of nowhere, I’m jolted by it.
Jolted by the reality of this moment, of the here and now.
As my crazy kids wrestle and turn cartwheels in our messy den, as I help Esther put the mounds of Barbie shoes and clothes and half naked dolls yet again into the white plastic tub, as I walk past the row of tupperware boxes filled with photos and old cheerleading uniforms in our dusty garage that have been greeting me for years…
It hits me that THIS is it.
The here and now.
THIS is what I’ve dreamed of, now literally, for years: Getting to be a wife and mom, living my days with these five fascinating people.
This moment, sitting here at my laptop, is part of what makes up all the moments that make up the days and the weeks and the years – and THIS is it.
The problem is, though I’m (honestly) grateful for my life, I thought I’d be different.
I thought by thirty-eight I’d be more mature, more Godly, more grown-up, more steady.
I thought I’d be in better shape, that I’d cook healthier meals, that I’d cherish getting to sit on the floor and play with my children.
I thought I’d be fluent in Spanish, and that I’d play piano really regularly.
I thought I’d be teaching more Bible studies, and writing more Bible studies.
Definitely thought I’d have a writing career underway. It saddens me sometimes, more often than I like to admit, that I\’m not doing more of what I love with writing.
And while my self examination reveals the reasons why these things are not so, I’m pretty content with who I am (and who I am not) because it lies in comparison with all of the unexpected, fulfilling surprises I didn’t even know to anticipate in my younger years. But specifically with writing and speaking and teaching, it feels defeating to be here, far from what I pictured.
Part of my fear in writing is that I keep waiting to become that person. That person I’ve pictured all these years. The really mature one, the early-bird-Bible-scholar one. The one who doesn’t struggle with fatigue and fear and inadequacy. The one who doesn’t hurt her mom’s feelings or lose her temper or feel discouraged by shallow ridicule.
But you know what? It’s hitting me, slowly and surely, that I’m just never going to be that person.
My goal is slowly shifting from “capable and sure grown-up” to “needy one who walks with (is carried by!) Jesus.”
So, this is my here and now. It’s all I’ve got. And believe me, I’m needy (goal accomplished).
No sense in waiting for Ms. Capable-and-Figured-It-All-Out to show up.
Is it possible that a few jumbled words, sparse and vulnerable and hesitant, written by the hand of a Not-Even-Begun-To-Figure-It-All-Out, could provide comfort and encouragement?
As Basden tells me, “Mommy, if you want to write, then GET WRITING.”
And you, dear friend, are privy to my pep-talk.
On unsteady feet I traverse…