I am not a blogger. My personal blog . . . you know, the one with all the children’s goings-on, and the cute pictures, and little thoughts? It hasn’t been updated in months. There was still green on the trees and sand in our toes last time I posted anything on that site. Now, the last leaves of the orange, fiery tree outside my window have all fallen and it is the season of turkeys and pumpkins and lattes. I don’t know what I am doing here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to write in this space. I don’t feel like I have anything inspirational to say, or anything to make anyone laugh or think, or even anything to cause someone to want to come back to this space. But I have felt a tugging of One who does not let me go. So here I am.
I am a girl with limits. I have split ends that have needed to be chopped off for quite a few weeks now (hopefully, this Saturday?) and laundry piled on my bathroom floor. I ate way too many slices of pumpkin bread today and a way too few veggies. I come from a dysfunctional family and familial relationships are a wrestling for me. My parents divorced when I was in college, but like a little girl, I dream about them being together again almost every, single night. I am dysfunctional. I am insecure in all the wrong places, and confident in areas that I should not be. I’m a procrastinating, nail-biting, coffee-loving, late-rising, non-exercising kind of girl. But if you know me, you know I try to hide all that (except the coffee-loving part!) because I can’t stand not being perfect. I can’t stand my limits, yet I have them. And after twenty-something years of them, I’m starting to call them mine. I’m starting to claim them and almost . . . love them. Not that I want to keep them, or ignore them, but because the One who brushed my eyebrows into place and curved my very fingers and the arches of my feet, created “ends” of me. When he made me, he knew I would react to confrontation like some people react to public speaking (oh, and I react to that too, by the way). He allowed me to be an over-committer. He allowed me to be a lousy friend-maker. Because it is in my limits – in the places where there are no bootstraps to pull up, and confidence is long gone and only fear is ringing in my ears – it is there that He breathes his life into me. And when I’m on my knees crying out to God that I don’t know how to do this mothering thing and I don’t know how to do this wife thing, or this friend thing, or this sister thing, it is there that He comes most lovingly and most powerfully. There I find that beside me there is always One Other and beside Him there is simply no other.