story, legacy, grace

Thursday, April 4, 2013

This post was first published on February 15, 2012

This post by The Gypsy Mama is resonating within me as I write this. I’m in a bit of a writing slump. I think it’s mostly because my schedule has not been writing-friendly lately. I need some space to sit with my writing sometimes, to work it over, to refine and condense. I haven’t felt like I’ve had much space lately. There are days, today especially, when I long for a laptop and babysitting so I can head to a local coffee shop and just write. By myself.

I need to write stuff out. I know not many people read this blog, and while I am humbly appreciative of every single one of you, I would write it if no one read it at all. I had my settings to private when I began to write here, and although I’ve changed those settings since, my motivations are much the same now as they were then. I knew as we opened this particular chapter in our lives, that I needed to record it.

Our story is not more important than anyone else’s in the grand scheme of things, but it is still important. My father-in-law has journals that he has hand-written in for years. My mother has kept prayer journals for as long as I can remember. I remember my mother writing short articles about mothering for our church newsletter. I have not succeeded in hand-written journals or semi-published articles throughout my adult life, but I have this blog. A bit of a legacy for my children. I want our children to have roots. To know that their mama’s roots run deep. I want them to know the parts of my life, of their lives that they would otherwise not remember. (Even while I try to protect their own stories as much as possible, leaving them the privilege to tell it themselves someday.)

I don’t know the future. Sometimes parents are lost far too soon. Sometimes relationships don’t turn out the way we hope. I may never get to share any of this with them in the future, but I want them to know who I was. What I loved. Who I loved. I want them to know where I succeeded, but more importantly, I want them to understand where I failed. I want them to know that their father and I not only loved them, but also one another. I want them to know that we followed Jesus with everything we had.

On the one hand it sounds a bit selfish, like I think life is all about me. On the other hand, I am continually humbled and gratefully inspired the more I learn about my mama’s story, about my grandma’s story, about the rich and rooted heritage I come from. I want my children to know just a piece of that. I hope as they read about my part of in this great, big, exciting Story, that they understand how God uses broken people to make something beautiful. All of it someday redeemed, all of it eventually restored, all of it, all the time, grace.

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