There was a time when the love of my life, the anchor of my sanity, was writing. It was seemingly the only avenue I felt comfortable using to express myself. Over the last few years, I have watched my beloved form of expression wither away inside of me.

I started this blog with the hope that maybe the words I so tenderly cared for would change someone’s life. I didn’t want anything, but the peace of mind that I was pouring love into the world at a time when everyone so desperately needed it. I sought to use my decades of teaching to sift out the best of every life lesson learned, so I could package it up for the benefit of others.

Then life kind of spun out of control or maybe I lost control over the life I held in my view. I went from “today” problems to “what if the world is ending” problems. I shifted my gaze away from my present moment to the noise of all the moments happening around me. I traded the love I wanted to share on this platform, for a perseverative darkness stemming from the visceral hate occurring all over this world. Subconsciously, I was reshaping hope into a testimony of a lost humanity. The noise in my head was deafening.

“What’s the point?”

“Why write? No one even reads anymore.”

“Teachers, or people for that matter, need so much more that I can offer.”

“Too much is happening in this world for anyone to benefit from what I have to share.”

“Give up.”

“Stay distracted and you won’t have to feel the shame you feel for giving up.”

I stopped reading because I should be writing. I stopped listing to podcasts because I quit my own podcast. I sold myself a story that I had nothing to offer a world that is so incredibly broken.

However, in times such as these, we can settle into shame and watch our flower wither, or we can dig out the roots and get to the bottom of the damn problem.  So, I put my hand in the dirt and dug down deep through my discomfort.   

My mother has dementia and can no longer communicate. I watch her struggle to make out words that rarely make their way into a sentence. I looked at her writing over the past 10 years and saw her ability to record and relay thoughts rapidly deteriorate till she could write no longer. 

With those memories, my flower in ashes was found.  I had to confront the monster I chose to ignore which is the constant fear, that in a not so far off future, I may also lose access to my beloved words. I had to accept that the gift and outlet I have come to love, rely on, and find my worth in may no longer belong to me.  Who will I be if I do not have the ability to paint my landscape with the words I love to craft?

Fear needs faith and faith requires prayer.  Yesterday, I prayed before I started my day and felt this nudge pulling at my heart. It was as if Jesus whispered, “How can I protect your words if you no longer use them? How can you ask me for something you are unwilling to share?” I felt like a fool. Rational thought crept in.  I had manifested my own pain, by separating myself from the very thing I so desperately need now more than ever.

Today marks the first day of lent. For the next 40 days I will honor my maker with a brief post that may just shine light and bring love to someone who needs it. He calls us to love each other, not just those we look like, agree with, or care for and that is what I intend to do.

Commence my 40 day journey… back to myself and back to the words that are meant to be shared.