I can’t sleep. My mind, once again, while lying in bed, writes beautiful words. Words I don’t put to paper. Words that I can never quite articulate on paper the same as in my head. So many lost words. Am I even a writer?
Writer: a person who commits his or her thoughts, ideas, etc. to writing (dictionary.com). Aka one who writes. A writer must write.
For over a year now, all of 2021, I claimed to set it down. Like someday I planned on picking it back up. Because I am a. writer. I think I’m a writer. It feeds my soul. Brings me closer to Jesus. Helps me to understand myself and life. My way of connecting with the world and people around me.
But it often hurts. It’s hard. There are teasr and grief and sorrow to process. And joy. So much joy and so little time. So much joy that begs me to be present in the moment. My grandparents died at age 83. It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough time to ask all the questions. To listen to all the stories. Thao died when he was five. My mother-in-law forty-eight. It’s never enough.
If that’s how long I have, I don’t want to miss a thing. I don’t want my kids to remember my eyes glued to a screen, half-heartedly listening to their stories. I don’t want to just hear about their adventures. I want to be in their adventures. I want to see it with my own eyes. I want to laugh with them. I want to cry with them. If I only have five or forty-eight or eighty-three years, I want them to count. I want to exude love. Jesus. Love. I want to leave a legacy of soul-changing faith and prayer. I want my life to matter so much more than words on paper.
So I set it down. A year ago I felt like that’s what Jesus asked of me. Lay it down at his feet. At the cross. Bury it. Let it be. I was still a writer. Writing stories to pages just not written yet.
But the Lord, in his kindness and in his timing writes words on my heart. Some to share. Some to treasure.
I couldn’t sleep, the words stirring in my heart. My mind restless. Is now the time? Just start writing.
The house is quiet. I warm up yesterdays coffee on the stove. I think of a hundred reasons not to. I think of one reason to write. I am a writer.
I think of the donut shop in town. Somehow it’s closing felt like another chapter of Thao’s life was over. I think of our foster care journey. The joy our foster son brings. How calling him “foster son” sounds so temporary but yet no matter what happens, he will have impacted my life forever. I think of the numerous churches we’ve visited this year. I think of friendship. Community. Adoption. Homeschool. Parenting. Marriage. Grief. Delight. Joy. There are so many things I want to write about this life with Jesus. There are so many stories to tell.
I want to leave a legacy of prayer, of faith, of love. I want to pass these stories on to my children. Pen to paper this year (or words on a screen), I will write again. And even though just writing this is more for me than for you, I hope it encourages you, too. The world needs your legacy of love, of Jesus. Your family needs your stories, too.
My family is taking a planned sabbatical this month. From all the extra. From all the busy. We are resting. Grieving. Digging deeper. Diving in to the things that feed our souls and fix our eyes on Jesus. Seems like a good time to pick back up the writing.
But when I asked my children what feeds their souls, what brings them closer to Jesus, what makes them feel alive and feels right. What they believe God made them to do…they had answers. They could answer that question at ten and twelve and thirteen. And I hope they never lose that. I hope their confidence in who Jesus made them to be is centered. I hope they always remember whose they are. I hope they walk boldly in faith. Humbly in love. And deeper in Christ each year.
I hope the same for you.
Happy New Year and blessings,
Tiffany
