So I want to start something new here on the blog. Weekly updates. *gulp*
Those who know me realize that I get really, really, really, REALLY excited about new stuff. I loved going back to school after the long, hot months of summer – the sharpened pencils, unscathed schoolbooks and perfectly white tennis shoes were enough to make me ready to learn. (Nerd much?) And you can blame it on that weird preggo-nesting phase if you want, but when Noah and Leyton were born, I was so excited to organize all of their secondhand-but-new-to-me clothes, toys, bottles, and crib sheets that I’d spend hours stacking and placing them exactly where I thought they’d best fit in our little house. New packs of gum, new books, new house decorations, new traditions, new roads to explore, new CD’s still shrink-wrapped in their little cases, new journals, new recipes, new ideas… I love it all.
New speaks of fresh beginnings. Of clean slates. Of potential for greatness. (Ok, so I’m not sure how a pack of gum holds potential for greatness, but you get my point.) New brings with it all kinds of hidden possibilities.
I’m nervous. You wanna know why? Because I’m a perfectionist. When I buy something new or start something new, I want my experience with it to be perfect.
In middle school, I had to write out my spelling lists for homework. I was so eager to pull out that fresh, crisp sheet of wide-lined notebook paper and begin copying the letters. But if I made even one mistake, I’d rip up the whole sheet and start again. (Yes, I realize that I probably need medical help.) When I start journals or blogs, I get so frustrated if I miss a day or if my words don’t flow perfectly. I don’t even attempt to make New Year’s resolutions anymore because, who am I kidding? I can’t make it a month without breaking my word.
So saying something as little as “You know, I’d like to start updating my blog weekly” scares the mess out of me. Because I know I’m going to fail.
If I’m really going to try to do this, I’ve got to give up some of the perfectionism that holds me hostage. I’ve got to concede that my words won’t always be eloquent or profound or beautiful. I’ve got to be OK if I miss a week because I was planning some lessons for my kindergartners or holding a sick baby. I’ve got to pick up where I left off. I’ve got to be all right with being imperfect.
I know the newness of this desire to write more will wear off soon. But I just want to remember more often. I want to savor the little moments with family and students. I want to be able to look back over the documented years and pinpoint moments where I can see God’s invisible hand so clearly guiding. I want to remember the stormy seasons of life and how it often felt like I was drowning but how God was always there with me, holding me close while the boat rocked. I want to see how God changes my way of thinking as time goes on.
So here’s to something new. Here’s to writing more and remembering more and praising more. Here’s to praying that my Father gets some glory – from imperfect, little old me.