I've probably needed to do this for a long time. Ever since the first baby was born over six years ago and life was no longer about how to spend my days...but was it ever? My hours moved from discussing Jane Eyre to changing diapers, arranging nap schedules, and picking up goldfish from the carpet. Nothing unusual or worth writing about, really. It happens to most women my age. But suddenly, it seems, there are fewer venues to speak. Junior doesn't seem to understand what you have given up, nor does he seem to mind that your life is now immersed in his well-being. Time floats away on nursery rhymes and your voice grows hoarse as you cough up dinner menus and to-do lists.
And so, six years later (with the help of technology - did I really say that?) I can quietly (after the now, three!, little ones have gone to bed) sit down and write my story. No one may hear. No one may care. But it is a story. And even Jesus liked to tell a story.
No I won't start at the beginning. I'm not up for reliving my high school years as a moralist or my college years spent trying to earn magna cum laude and a husband. And really I have already written and spoken endlessly of the Father's initial capturing of my soul and adopting me as His child. It too was a process, and I guess still is. Especially my twentys were wondrous years of studying God's truths and promises, taking notes on three point sermons, discussing salvation, repentance, and holiness with friends. Years that were invaluable to who I am now.
I still do drink from the wellspring of that time, " the crystal fountain, whence the healing stream doth flow;" BUT, now, amidst the busyness, the monotony, the noise of the world and of motherhood, I often miss the small "streams of mercy never ceasing"...over and over...from that same Fountain. The daily streams. The streams that simply refresh, not just heal. Today I need sips. I want to lean over on my knees, smell the freshness of the water, hear the soft sound of the ripples, and know that the stream is going somewhere. It is taking me with it on a journey. A story. The Author and Perfector of the story bids me come, and I am still thirsty. I don't have to have an appointment to drink. I don't have to drink much. I just have to return to the streams and see, hear, taste and smell that He is good. Maybe these writings will bring me back there.
I've been inspired by four people. Paul Miller, author of The Praying Life. Kent Travis, Sunday school teacher extraordinairre who just this week dared us to venture away from systematic theology and to return to the Story. Ann Voskamp, whose own blog is a small taste of online heaven. And my husband, who was holding my hand when I experienced my first real stream of mercy.
And so, six years later (with the help of technology - did I really say that?) I can quietly (after the now, three!, little ones have gone to bed) sit down and write my story. No one may hear. No one may care. But it is a story. And even Jesus liked to tell a story.
No I won't start at the beginning. I'm not up for reliving my high school years as a moralist or my college years spent trying to earn magna cum laude and a husband. And really I have already written and spoken endlessly of the Father's initial capturing of my soul and adopting me as His child. It too was a process, and I guess still is. Especially my twentys were wondrous years of studying God's truths and promises, taking notes on three point sermons, discussing salvation, repentance, and holiness with friends. Years that were invaluable to who I am now.
I still do drink from the wellspring of that time, " the crystal fountain, whence the healing stream doth flow;" BUT, now, amidst the busyness, the monotony, the noise of the world and of motherhood, I often miss the small "streams of mercy never ceasing"...over and over...from that same Fountain. The daily streams. The streams that simply refresh, not just heal. Today I need sips. I want to lean over on my knees, smell the freshness of the water, hear the soft sound of the ripples, and know that the stream is going somewhere. It is taking me with it on a journey. A story. The Author and Perfector of the story bids me come, and I am still thirsty. I don't have to have an appointment to drink. I don't have to drink much. I just have to return to the streams and see, hear, taste and smell that He is good. Maybe these writings will bring me back there.
I've been inspired by four people. Paul Miller, author of The Praying Life. Kent Travis, Sunday school teacher extraordinairre who just this week dared us to venture away from systematic theology and to return to the Story. Ann Voskamp, whose own blog is a small taste of online heaven. And my husband, who was holding my hand when I experienced my first real stream of mercy.
"Come thou fount of every blessing,
Tune thy heart to sing thy grace;
Streams of mercy never ceasing,
Call for songs of loudest praise."
1 comment:
the russells love reading your story!
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