I’ve neglected my children.
I made allowances for my need to write, to follow hard after dreams. But I’ve done it all wrong.
Because a vacancy moved into their lives as the rabbit’s hole of my laptop screen beckoned and swallowed me up.
But didn’t my ministry and passion need to be tended too? The reading and interacting. The tweets and status updates and link-ups. The silence and time to write.
It seemed I killed my blog just when I was seeing fruit. Just when I had built up subscribers and was feeling like the hard work was paying off.
God was being glorified, right? This is after all, the dream He gave me. The call I was responding to. The call I felt God confirmed in so many different ways.
She told me I have the potential to be great. That I’ve got a voice and skill and passion and that if I learned to combine those with a little direction, I could really rock this whole writer thing. Maybe get published and have a real book on a real shelf instead of piles of journals stacked in old boxes in the garage.
She said that as an encouragement to me, her eyes warm and expressive, the kind that make you nod like a puppy and lap up anything she says, because after all, she is living this dream. And when my feet finally landed back on earth, I was giddy with dreams I’d always held but never dared speak aloud.
I wanted to rip her words from the air and type them into a crisp contract I could present to God to sign.
After all, everything I’m passionate about, everything that makes my fingers fly at the keyboard, everything that inspires me and draws me out to splash around on a canvas of words starts with God’s glorious inspiration.
The breathing of words and story into the wounds of my past, the joys of my present, the fears in my moments, and the dreams of my future. It only seemed right that any platform built is going to shine directly on Him.
But I couldn’t get past the Holy Spirits prompting that I was getting it wrong. Again.
I’ve found myself failing at the dream.
The time to write and pour myself into this ministry of words is spotty at best. The time to invest in those dreams, spaced and erratic.
And the kids are ready to be tucked in and pleading for one more story and I’ll lay there resenting my time being used up on another rendition of “If You Give A Mouse a Muffin.”
Because I feel like the poor child in the story, being overrun with requests, each one leading to another. If you put your child in pajamas, they will decide they only want to wear the batman ones, and you will remember those are in the wash, so you will bribe him with another story, and if you read him another story, he will fall asleep on you, so you will have to carry him to his bed, and if you carry him to his bed, he will wake up and want another story…
And I’ve bought into the urgency of now.
I see other bloggers succeeding, and I know they deserve it, but I’m also grieving and feeling left out.
I can’t keep up with the pace or demands of blogging, and mothering, and homeschooling, and ministry, and mentoring, and being a good wife. If you add in showering, cooking, and keeping house, you have the trifecta of failure.
I’m looking for dead weight to cut and I see nothing but my words. So the blog often goes silent. And numbers dive.
And I’m mourning the dream, pity washing over me when I remember, “It’s not a loss, it’s a sacrifice.”
It is laying my dreams and promises of God on the altar, trusting that in His time He will provide.
It is trusting that the path I’m on isn’t a race to the finish line but a slow steady obedience, each step moving me forward closer to Him, where dreams are birthed. It is trusting that blogs can be resurrected from the dead or slaughtered completely and it makes no difference as long as I’m faithful.
I have friends waiting on the Lord. Bleary-eyed new mothers craving a full nights sleep and shirts free from spit-up and days when they’ll have the energy to fix their hair again. Women facing vacant rooms in a once loud house, longing for Thanksgiving break, knowing their kids will be visiting instead of just home. Friends who long for things I so easily take for granted, when kids climb up onto my lap asking for more of mommy.
I forget God created seasons. We brush past eternity every time we stop to really see where God is in each one. And that, when we choose what might seem like a sacrifice, it’s not a loss at all, because nothing is lost which is released into His hands.