On Writing Again

I have a confession to make: I’m quite the coward.

I have excuses.

But none that should have stopped me. I mean, they seem like good excuses, to the “world,” but they aren’t really that good, because why should we allow Fear and Failure and Fuddledudds to keep us from the work we know we should do, the voice we know we should raise, and the words we know we should write?

The number of excuses I can come up with would rival a four-year-old!

• Laundry Must Be Done
• I probably ought to travel 500 miles again, and again, and again.
• My back hurts
• My finger hurts
• My neck hurts
• …oh, so many more excuses.

And I can whine to rival a two-year-old.

• I don’t know what to saaaaay
• I don’t think anyone will caaare
• That person that one time said mean things, and so did that one, and maybe others will, tooooo
• I went through a hard time and then another and now I’m Wounded (dramatically said) and thus I cannot bear to write (I get Victorian British when I’m at the Peak of Whine)

I’ve alternated between avoidance (excuses) and fear (whining) for such a long time. But a couple of months ago, I was reading the Scriptures and came upon “I searched and could not find anyone to repair the wall and stand in the gap for me” (Ezekiel 22:30). And I thought, “Oh, man, they were lame! I’d repair the wall. I’d totally stand up and be the lone girl offering to do that. Me, a hammer and chisel in my hands, boots on my feet, standing in the gap, repairing the wall.”

But the truth has been nagging me at the back of my mind ever since. I realize that it’s not true what I thought I’d do. I wouldn’t offer, and I wouldn’t be willing to act on repairing the wall. I’d want to and I’d be willing, but I wouldn’t drop my clutch of excuses to actually go do it. I’d trip on my pouty whiny lip as I made another excuse about how I just can’t but wish I could.

I don’t want to be like that.

So that’s why I’m here, back in this space, writing again. I’m tired of hearing my excuses, and I never did allow whining in our house (“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you. I don’t speak ‘whine,’ you see. Could you repeat that in English for me?,” I’d say to our toddlers. They’d clear their throats and speak clear as day, haha).

It feels vulnerable to write this publicly, as now I have to actually act, but I am serious, and I do wish to be a person who acts.

So here I am.

I don’t know what that means, me being here. But being here is the start.