Last night when silence settled over the house, I found myself lost in thought at the computer reading over old blog posts that I had written. Nighttime invites reflection. With each post, I grew increasingly aware that if I hadn't preserved these moments in writing, I likely would have forgotten them entirely.
It's impossible to chronicle every facet of my daughters' childhoods, and there's no way to preserve an accurate rendering of each experience as I've navigated my life as a mother.
There are moments, I'm sure, beautiful ones, that already have slipped through the cracks of my memory. Writing and photographs, however imperfect, serve as the tools to tie up the loose threads of fading recollections.
I've journaled for years. After my first daughter was born, I began writing stories and merging ideas into essays, and they're blossoming into what I hope will one day become a book. This blog, which I started not quite nine months ago, was born as a way for me to stave off the gnawing doubt that my desire to write would never develop into anything tangible, that a book would never be published, that the dog-eared drafts of chapters would still be sitting on my desk, shoved aside to the corner, years from now.
Although I didn't realize it when I published my first post, blogging has been my response to these unspoken fears. In many ways, it's met that deep desire to write and to have that writing be read. Most importantly, it's given me a greater glimpse into my own life, forcing me in the best sense of the word to be observant, to be present, to be aware.
It's my birthday today, and as I look back over the past year, it's evident that this blog has turned out to be a great gift. I believe that my innate draw to writing -- this deep desire to record and reflect and chronicle -- is how God has wired me. He keeps records, too, and I am drawn to descriptions of God as chronicler:
"You have searched me, Lord, and you know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; you perceive my thoughts from afar. You discern my going out and my lying down; you are familiar with all my ways. Before a word is on my tongue, you, Lord, know it completely" (Psalm 139:1-4).
"You've kept count of my wanderings, you store my tears in your bottle. Are they not in your book?" (Psalm 56:8).
Writers record what they deem to be significant, and God, as an author, records what's important to him. I imagine that he's skimming my baby book today, looking over my history, remembering my earlier years with fondness, and dreaming about my future, just like I steal moments on my daughters' birthdays to pour over photographs, reminisce, and envision what's to come.
The year ahead looks good.
One click above would be a lovely gift today!