Why I Write

The sky outside is gray and the air has turned cold. I can hear the whirring of my washing machine as it spins and sloshes the load of sheets inside. I can smell the blend of spices from my kitchen where the crock-pot slowly cooks soup that will be lunch in the coming days for my husband.

My husband.

It feels surreal to type that.

Much has happened since I last sat to write. There is too much to write in one post after months of silence, but so much I want to say. It will come, slowly, but steadily. Much like the tulips that will blossom in the spring. 

I’m sitting now at the table in my dining room. A wall of books beside me, a mug of coffee that has gone cold in front of me, and a painting of the ocean in my view. As I look at it, I can’t help but think that life is like a room with an ocean view. The more we learn to slow down, to stop and marvel, the more in awe we are of this ocean of kindness crashing onto the shores around us. There are storms. There are dark nights. There are shipwrecks. But the ocean of God’s lovingkindness is ever there, ever crashing onto the shore, ever reaching to unseeable depths, ever dazzling those who pause to simply see it. 

I think that perhaps, this is why I write. Writing is a means by which I am forced to stop and truly see the world around me. In order to put words down and tell the stories of God’s faithfulness, I must first learn to pay attention to the details, to look for Him in the smallest moments. 

It’s good to be back.