“For me writing has always felt like praying… You feel that you are with someone. I feel I am with you now, whatever that can mean…”
“And now I live and I breathe for an audience of One…”
One of the first blogs I ever read was Autismville by Judith, and I had a “Killing Me Softly” experience. I felt like she had ‘found my letters and read each one out loud’ (only she said it better than I ever could).
But I thought, I’ll try my hand at this — keep account of Rhema’s growth and development, write about the highs and lows and God’s fingerprint in the midst of it all.
Somewhere along the way I started noticing stats, linking the quality of my writing and my value to a hit counter. The affirmation and applause, the cyber pats on the back became a little too important. There were times when I went a few days without blogging and literally felt unsettled until I published a post. I began to wonder how much of my endeavoring was for a comment-worthy post rather than a worthy post. Not that I have some ginormous readership or something, but I missed the early days when I didn’t compare or care about measuring up or keeping up (- shoot, my first post ever was about Rhema on the toilet.)
Earlier this year I found myself in a horrible pit.
I realized I needed to pause and take stock of my life, search my heart. I stepped down from a number of things, including blogging. Why do I say what I say, do what I do. Why do I write? Why do I blog? Life is precious and time is short, and if I’m going to spend any of it on this blog, I want to make sure that it comes from a pure, honest place.
When I returned to this space I disabled comments and hid the stats meter, and it has helped me remember what and who I’m writing for. But one of the best things about blogging for me has been the community, the conversation. And I dearly love the community in this corner of the blogosphere! (I read a blog the other day and went to add my two cents only to discover that the writer had disabled comments. I felt muted, shut off from the discourse. I don’t want anyone to feel that way here).
All that to say, I’ve turned comments back on. (Yes, I’m psychotic.) I may very well turn comments back off when I feel that self-imposed bloggy pressure coming on or I find the old competitive, prideful self creeping back in.
I so enjoy words. I love reading them, writing them into stories. Rhema’s every little word whispered or approximated is priceless. Hope’s words amaze and amuse.
Words in cyberspace are superfluous. Every time I log in, the WordPress tool boasts ‘52,539,835 words today.’ Countless words are recorded in chats, emails, blogs, Facebook and Twitter pages. My friend Stefan wrote once, “With the sheer volume and pace of words and words and words, it is unnatural and counter cultural to slow down enough to read or write words that matter. And here is this blog adding more to the lightly edited, rough draft VOLUME, like more teardrops in the rain…”
I want what I do and say to matter. What I say about my days with autism. What I say about my days as a wife and mother, as a friend and sister. As one who fell, and falls, and was saved, as is saved by grace alone.
If I write something that matters or resonates with you or frustrates you, or if you have advice to share or just want to encourage me, please do comment. I thank you. In the meantime, I’m trying to learn that God’s comment on my life is the only one I need, it’s only His ‘Well done’ that counts.
*Rhema and I are off on a reconnaissance mission to the DC area this week. We’ll be scoping out schools in Maryland and Virginia, looking for a place to live. (Thank you to all who sent recommendations and referrals.) I’m a little anxious about Rhema handling all of the travel, but the Electric Slide is cued up on the iTouch so we should be good. The director of Rhema’s current school is going with us to tour potential schools and help me make a decision about which is best. Yeah, we got it like that. We’re so blessed, and I’m grateful.