It’s been a decade since I began to blog. And, it’s coming up on 2 decades that I began to journal – you know, the kind with paper and markers and pens that have ink. Bonus points for stickers, right? I’ve been through it all – starting with Xanga where the comments and eProps were all we really wanted. I created every version of Live Journal, Blog Spot, Tumblr, etc. It was fun to connect with friends, change the colors on every background, make my fonts prettier than yours, and have my friends read about all the feelings I’ve ever had.
In the past few years, my thirst for approval from my writing drew me to writing behind closed door, posting on a blog that few could see, and reserving these words for myself and the people closest to me. (Okay fine, I’m pretty sure only Josh read my secret blogs.)
I’ve decided to come out of hiding and enter the world of grown up blogging. I’m blindly writing in faith that the creative process will refine me in ways that sitting idly and secretly will not. Stepping out and opening myself for “criticism” is probably a strong way to say it – but stepping out and opening myself up for what probably won’t be an incessant rush of affirmation and praise is probably what my soul needs most.
I write to encourage and empower. I write in ways that are raw and genuine, hoping that someone may feel less alone in their struggle for perfection, approval, or control. My life screams of a love for stories. Whether it is the ones that my friends tell me, the ones that my 7 year old students write, or the story God has written over my life.
I’ve wondered whether my particular story is worth writing, sharing, or reading about. I’ve concluded that it is worthy of being told, because I’m not the Author of it anyway.
I write because I have a story – and writing my story doesn’t say that I think it’s worth more than anyone else’s. I write because it’s good for my soul, and maybe I need to do something that I love even though other people can do it way better than I can and can write about things more interesting than I.
Writing is a place of humility because it comes from the deepest part of who I am, yet it can broadcast itself to whoever will receive it to be interpreted in anyway the reader wants it to be – even if that’s not what I meant for it to be. It’s a scary, yet beautiful process that can mean so much to me, so little to you, but could maybe possibly be used for something or Someone that lasts forever. It’s fleeting, yet profound. Scrolled quickly through, or poured over and sunken into souls.
So, hello! Here I am, writing my story, your story, and all the stories. Because each one is worthy to be told, and worthy to be heard.