On Why I Must Write

Playing in the ophthalmologist's waiting room.
Instead of germ infested toys, this waiting room features a bright red carpeted thingy my children love.  It's amazing how it sparks their imaginations. This week it was a castle with a mote.

Writing several times a week is a significant time commitment. Sometimes it means less sleep. Sometimes it means the dinner dishes get soaked only, and loaded in the dishwasher in the morning. Or sometimes it means I go to bed at 9:30 PM and get up at 4:30 AM, to read, reflect, write.

Many a day, it's clearly wiser to tell myself no. Don't write today. But so often I can't not write. My heart and soul need to reflect on this journey, to record the beauty and ashes of life. To record His redemption. His faithfulness. When a reflection comes, it begs to be processed sooner, rather than later.

In the reflecting and writing God clarifies for me what my heart must look like, to be a heart after His. As such, writing is a form of worship for me.

People who love writing will tell you that to completely process this life, they have to pen it. As the words flow, as the sentences take shape, clarity of mind comes too. And peace comes with clarity. A lot can be going wrong in my life, but if I understand it all from His perspective, I can cope with it, give thanks for it, experience peace through it.

Some people need to talk to process. They talk on and on until they've arrived at clarity. Some need a quiet place to process, alone. They can't stand noise or crowds too often.

Tonight it's mothering and children I reflect on. I must soak up these children with all my heart. Everything about them. The way they smelled after the bath, the way they giggled at each other's antics, the way they marveled at the baby sparrows peaking out of an attic-vent nest on the side of the house. The sparrows have nested there for two years now. We all count ourselves blessed to have a property graced with sparrow and robin nests.

And this year, bunnies are plentiful too. We saw a baby one just yesterday. Not edging your yard and flowerbeds and fences means you create a haven for wildlife. Last year we found a turtle in our yard, hiding in the tall grass at the fence line.

The children delight in every sighting. This morning they ran from one window to the next, following a bunny's wanderings.

I want to remember the sound of their squeals. Their wonder and excitement at what God created for their good pleasure. The world is a wonder. I want them to reflect on who made it that way, and give Him thanks with their whole hearts.

Nature is an intentional gift from God. Beauty is an ever-present grace. Our hearts can break over something, but when we look out the window, there's that cardinal standing in the snow, or that goldfinch gracing a branch near the window.

Look for His graces. This is what I want my children to know. That robin struggling with a worm right before your eyes? That cardinal sitting on a snowlined tree branch? That goldfinch or oriole sighting? That baby bunny scurrying by the window?


Not an accident. It's Him, saying I am here with you. I know your sorrow, your troubles. I have a plan and I'll never leave you or forsake you.

These children? I can't get enough of them during the day. I can't soak up enough of their cuteness, their wonder, their love, because caring for them keeps me so busy. Sitting here at the computer, alone with my thoughts made into words made into sentences, I can soak up the blessing entirely, reflect on it, marvel at it, and give thanks for it. And the next time they pass by me, I'll scoop them up and love on them, remembering that I don't want one day to pass without them knowing they color my days happy. That I love them fiercely.

That no matter how many times they wet the bed and wake me up, spill their milk or walk outside in their socks, or leave bits of Playdoh all over the floor, I am not really undone, though I may look it. I am really blessed. Blessed so much I can't record the feelings fast enough. 


For the moments turn into days, turn into weeks, turn into months, turn into years, faster than my heart can process.


Words on a page? Can they slow time down? Can the recording of a day make it live on?

I want to think so. And so I write.

After bath books together