Twice I had to pull into traffic at the last minute because my lane suddenly closed. Twice. With no warning. (Seriously!) If you've ever driven through Lexington, you know what a nightmare that was.
|Not really Lexington - Photo credit|
And writing isn't as easy as I remember. If it were, this wouldn't be much of a 40-day thing to do, right? Lent isn't about easy. It's about stretching ourselves and doing something hard. All you good people fasting meat or chocolate or sugar for 40 days are feeling the pinch, too. Especially now:
|Sorry, guys. Photo credit|
Good habits take work, and lots of it.
For Lent, my work is writing. But it's not about attracting readers. (No offense! Please don't go.)
It's not about being an inspiration, thank God. (You know how I feel about that.) And it's not about taking the place of your devotionals, Hallmark movies, or prayer life.
This is about naming what's good in my days. And oh, do I ever need that because this season (every season) has its struggles. But then it has its gifts, too, and I know they won't last forever, and I'm desperate to notice them now.
I'm so busy focusing on what's wrong that if I'm not careful, I don't see see what's right. I do this to myself, to my kids, to my whole life, and nobody gets any grace because we're all just a project in the works. And in the meantime, all these gifts surround me and all these moments are running out, and one day I'll look back and say, "Where did the time go? Where are my babies?"
I can't stop time, and I won't stop their growing, but I can stop myself. I can notice the things I'll miss when they're gone, and I can live the moments I'll wish I had back. And I will have them back, because they'll be memories of the times I paid attention.
I just don't want to miss out because I'm too tired and busy and worried to pay attention.
I don't want to miss this time with the Preacher, or my opportunities at work, or the warmth of our townhouse with geothermal heat.
I don't want to miss my life, guys.
And if this is what it takes to remember that, then. . . well, then I'll spend my evenings reworking this clay until it's good. Not perfect, but good.
(Or at least good enough.)
Getting messy hands,