My Miracle

Maybe I just need to get it out of me. Writing is so crazy to me. Mostly because I never wanted to or liked it or felt remotely good at it. But now, when I write, I feel like I am doing what I am supposed to be doing. When I get too busy to write, doing other things, I don’t feel peace about any of it. Instead of trying to squeeze it in to what I am doing the rest of my day, I need to make it a first priority and then everything else falls in to place. And let’s face it, the things that keep me from writing are not really actual jobs that need to be done; most of the time I am just stewing or fretting over what else needs to be done. Not the same thing.

I knew a guy in college who just sat down one day and decided to play the piano. And he did it. He learned to play by ear and would even sing at the same time. He eventually became a worship pastor at a church. I have always wished that could be me. You hear about those things occasionally. Like the kid in my son’s class in 8th grade who decided to try his hand at long jump. That year he won State. What the what? Why can’t his happen to me? And then I realize, it sort of did.

The fact that I have written anything, let alone hundreds of “things”, that anyone reads or comments on is nothing short of a miracle of that caliber. Seriously. Little ol’ me saying anything worth listening to in a way that isn’t a jumbled blog of lame observations and unclear explanations of how I find meaning out of everyday life situations is equivalent to becoming a musician or gold ribbon athlete practically overnight. And, I have to say, that even though I didn’t ask for it or practice for years or get any formal training whatsoever, I still know in my “knower” that this is a good gift from a great God who expects me to use it for His glory. Not mine. Which is pretty lucky for me because most of my blogs are somewhat incriminating and often show off some of my most embarrassing character defects. But since it’s not about me, I can be ok with that.

I have to admit to you that when I sat down to write today, I did it just for me. I am having a day of questioning myself. I feel inadequate in pretty much every area of my life. I am taking things personally that have nothing to do with me and am having trouble reigning in my anxious and controlling thoughts. I feel frozen with fear and dread over ridiculous things that are light years away from worries like dying of Leukemia. But nevertheless, they are haunting me.

Writing is an attempt to focus on something else. Something that God has chosen to give me as a gift, even if it doesn’t last forever. Writing is an avenue for me to get my bearings. To recalibrate my mind and heart. To remind myself of what I believe and don’t believe. Which thoughts are lies and which are true.

I can’t say that I am 100% better, but I definitely feel like the pressure valve has been released and the sensation of being wound up and worked up and tensed up is slowly leaking out of me.

So, I write for you. And, I guess, I write for me. And the miracle of it all is not lost on me…

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