I like to sit on our little tweed couch with the tiny blue threads weaving through a goldy-taupish soft color and tuck my knees in. On an average evening, that is my perch while my husband sits in our inherited and plaid rolled arm chair with the ottoman, his feet resting from the long walk of a day of work. He goes through a pair of tennis shoes every year. True story.
About a month ago, we had tumbled into our routine after a day full of hither, thither and yon.
There I was. Knees tucked in. And I was talking through a crisis of conscience about writing and feeling small but wanting to feel important and noticed.
“I don’t see you working on it.”
He has that way. Of making seven words wallop you like a sucker punch. You can’t even catch your breath. He looked right at me and he said it.
And he was right.
I have a small something that is so big to me and it is just for me and I have been talking about working on it for months. Instead of doing the thing my heart was tugged by, I was worrying over what I should be.
It stung for a few days. And I know myself so I shared it with a few heart friends so that I could not avoid trying, starting, maybe failing again.
And then I did something. On a Saturday morning, I got up early. I fixed my hair all wispy-like and I put on my favorite pair of jeans. The ones with the rip at the knee. The ones that are barely holding together. I put on a creamy orange t shirt and a grass green cardigan. I didn’t need to match because I was being a writer. A big girl, serious writer.
I went to Starbucks.
And there I forced my earphones in and I let the music flow over me and I started. I wrote.
It was 7:00 on a Saturday morning and a steady stream of people were coming in and I could not silence the Tom Hanks voice bouncing around my brain as I could just barely hear the orders rattled off. Tall! Decaf! Cappuccino!
That steady stream was a life giving rhythm and even though they were probably off on some great adventure of a Saturday and my adventure was through story words, I felt connected to them.
I started. And I’ve done it again and again. And do you know what? A tiny stream of life was awakened in my heart.
Starting is a powerful thing. Planning is good. Preparation is to be honored. But just making that first inky line on paper or clickety clacking away a line of rounded black letters into blank white? There’s power in that.
Often, just after a hit publish? I squint shut my eyes real tight and I hold my little heart words out and I try really hard not to take back or explain away or hide. And I love it when you all respond. I’m so, so glad to know that all of this redeeming God is working in my heart effects others for Him. I hope more than anything it does. Because when you are crying into the very chicken and corn you are cooking on a warm summer night over what He is teaching you and you are shaking your fists just a little bit it feels awful good to know that even if your heart is prickly, still He is using you.
So. Let’s talk about starting today. Do you need to air out that thing you need to start? Just say it. Do you have some glory filled story of how you started something He dreamed up just for you? Encourage others with it.