I’ve got an itch to write. The writing things is always in me but usually I operate at such a fast pace it’s hard to make time for it. Now I’m sitting in the most comfy chair in my house nursing a cold and snug as a bug under the heated throw blanket my sister got me for Christmas and I want to write. What exactly, I’m not quite sure. I have about 50 blog posts in my head and on notes scattered in notebooks, my carryon bag, my phone, and my purse and yet none of those are hitting me just right today.
Like something out of a Christmas movie my book miraculously arrived on my doorstep Christmas eve. Everything was so uncertain I hadn’t told a soul that it might arrive in time for Christmas. I had been secretly checking the UPS tracking numbers every 5 minutes for two days straight. I had grand plans of giving wrapped packages on Christmas morning to each in my family but by the time I actually held my book in my shaking hands I knew I couldn’t wait. I rushed to my parent’s house after hastily throwing books into random gift bags with no tissues. I made up some random excuse about an “early Christmas present” for everyone and had them open them all at once. My brother-in-law and best friend cried, my grandparents demanded autographs, my parent’s and sister started reading immediately, and I stood there beaming with joy that I could share it all with them. The joy was in the sharing, not the accomplishment.
During one of our holiday meals our family sat together eating and laughing and talking and then we started sharing the highlights of our year. On the heels of my book being published it seemed like I would have an easy “highlight” to share. As I listened and reflected my book was the furthest thing from my mind. As my family shared about how God had used them through the year and the lessons they had learned my heart resonated with them. And when it was my turn I pointed back to my summer loving on kids. It’s funny how some of the worst meals of my year, the absolute worst beds of my year, and the never ending bugs were overshadowed by the beauty of loving kids and pointing them to Jesus. As I’ve reflected I’ve realized a book written, a blog published, a message spoken, a video recorded mean very little in light of lives touched. What stood out the most in my year were the tears cried with a child, the stories heard while rocking on a porch, the prayers whispered over bent heads, the joy seen in a soul who finally found Jesus. The names, the faces, the stories, and the God who orchestrates it all.
Maybe this turned into a bit of a New Year post. And maybe I just needed to write to process. My prayer for 2015 is for less of me and more of Him. For more wild moments that draw me closer to him, more stories heard, more grace given, more of Him in my ear and less of my own voice. At the end of 2015 may I be more in love with the Author of my story than I am with my story.