I hate when I sit down to write something, and it doesn't come out like I want. It happens all the time on my blog, and really, I have got to find a solution.
Sometimes when I'm way behind on journalling, I'll type it in to save time. It comes out sounding like a factual research paper, which isn't the point. I don't need a bulleted life-notes version of happenings. I want the emotion, the thoughts, the depth of my being to be on those pages because I may need to go back and read them to get my bearings or someone else may need that information to get their bearings. The world will not be a better place if I objectively record my life. However, if I am willing to dig deep, be honest even when I hate it and hate how it makes me look or feel, THAT has the potential to make a difference because THAT is where people will find themselves.
It is so easy to sit here behind my keyboard and create a poetic world filled with romanticized heartache and prettified pain. It is so easy to make questions and doubts look lovely and admirable. But what happens when those delicately woven words and intricately devised imagines on the screen slam into real life at the kitchen table, in the bedroom, at the altar, or in one's own journal? What happens when real life destroys the illusion and there are no editor's cuts when the scenes get intense and we can't cut to commercials?
What about the daughter who feels like she will never measure up to her mom's outrageous expectations? What about the wife who puts on that new silky gown and he rolls over and faces the wall...again? What about the mom who looks at her teenage daughter and is scared to death that beautiful, pure heart standing before her will become the broken woman she now is? What about the woman who has done everything to stand and feels she cannot stand anymore but does not have the freedom to fall on her knees at the altar because she's afraid she'll get pointing fingers instead of helping hands? So instead, she raises her hands, controls the quiver in her voice, fights back the tears in her eyes, and lies about how fine she is...one more time.
What about her?
What about all those hearts who feel they are the only ones hurting that bad because no one else admits she is...because I don't admit I am?
I don't like to talk about how much I struggle. I would far rather tell people the latest revelation I received, how I was victorious in something, or how God blessed me.
But I don't read the Psalms to hear how strong David was. I read them to hear how hard it was and how he chose to trust anyway. I read about Joseph because I want to know I'm not the only one whose visions don't line up with circumstance. I read about Jesus in the Garden because I don't always like the cup I'm given.
I don't read about these people to commiserate or wallow. I read them to help me keep walking, to help me keep believing. I read the great things God did for and through them to build my faith that He can do those things for and through me.
That's what I want to be for anyone else who reads this blog, who reads my articles, who hears me speak formally or informally. However, David's story is not told in perfect prose. Joseph in a dungeon because he was falsely accused and forgotten by someone he helped is not romantic rhyme. And Jesus on a cross was so offensive even God couldn't stand to look.
What makes me think I can write Rockwellian blogs and articles and have Dorothea Lange impact? Somehow I just don't think it works that way. Somehow I think people are looking for the ugly honesty that somehow becomes something beautiful and meaningful in the hands of an honestly amazing God. Somehow I don't think they are concerned about people saving face as much as they are concerned about knowing God can save them.
Honestly, I understand. Me too.
God, help me to never be more concerned about how I present myself than I am in presenting You.