I’ve taken a few years off writing. My life became more complicated than I would have ever wanted, and I had to confront a lot of personal demons. I wish I could say that I questioned myself about what I needed to sacrifice and I bravely put my own writing career on the chopping block because my family was more important, but it didn’t happen that way. One morning I realized it had been a few weeks since I’d written, and I thought, “I should write”, but nothing came. Then, it was a few months. I prayed about what I should write about and asked God where the fire went, but heard nothing. More months passed, and then all of the sudden it was years, and I wondered why I didn’t care more. I still believed in the things that I used to write about, right? So why didn’t the words come?
I moved across the country. My marriage hit a very painful place. I had another baby. I worked nights and twelve hour shifts and went back to school. Some nights I sat awake at 1am with my laptop on my lap in bed and I desperately wanted to write, but nothing came. And I prayed about it, too. I missed all of the people I used to spend my mornings and evenings with back when I did manage the blog, I wondered what they were up to. I wondered if they noticed I was gone, but words wouldn’t come. Looking back, I realize what I was going through. There were intense self doubts married to all of the problems in my life, and part of all of it was wondering if I even had anything worth saying. Was I the kind of person that anyone would listen to? I wanted the words to come, but when I started to write I hated everything. It was not because I stopped believing in my message, but because I had stopped believing in myself as someone who could give it. I felt that I’d failed, somehow, although even now I couldn’t tell you what I thought I’d failed in. I believed that I was somehow fundamentally flawed, and slowly stripped my life down to the bare bones to deal with myself.
I wish I could say, “problem solved! I’m all better now!”, but that isn’t true. I’m still having to deal with myself, my marriage, and my calling in some very major ways. I’m still not sure of myself, or even completely sure about what it is that I want to say. What I do know is that I need writing back in order to feel like myself, and that I believe in the message of God’s love, patience, and desire for his creation more than ever. I need to share these words. For the last few years they have been growing and growing inside of me until my own silence was unbearable, until even the thought of picking up the pen again hit me with waves of emotions. I can’t deny who I am. I am a writer, I have these words, and I need to put them out in the world.
So, the *! is back in business. There are pages and pages of notes on topics that we need to discuss. That whole thing about God needing his gay children? That’s back on the table. Poverty and the Church? Let’s go there. Heaven, Hell, and that uncomfortable and inneffable place in between? Oh yeah, baby, we’ve got to hammer that out. And the biggest thing of all, the thing that I seem to have in scads for everyone else but apparently not for myself: Love.