I don’t think I can call it busyness. Sure I have a whole lot of things to do. There’s work five days a week and appointments in between, then there’s chores when I get home and more chores and errands to do on the weekends. Things that the whole population does everyday of the week.

So to use busyness as a reason as to why I am not writing and posting doesn’t fit.

Was it laziness? I don’t think so. I’ve realized today that this has more to do with my intentions, setting it aside. I mean, it’s not like my absence and the lack of posts would mean anything or would be missed.

I don’t have that much power yet. And my stories, those stories of faith and vulnerability, of struggles and pains, of weaknesses and finding strength, of letting go and moving on, of getting lost and finding yourself, of chaos and peace….they’re everyone’s stories. Would mine make a difference? This is what I ask myself.

Do my stories matter? Maybe not or maybe they do. But here’s the thing, our stories are all unique. Our decisions, our hopes and dreams and everything else in between each stages of our life, they give us a story. And each of these stories fits into His story and are all woven in with other stories, so huge it’s hard to imagine why we are even part of them. And yet we are.

So in between catching breaths and finishing workloads, I write.

And in between busyness and weariness, denials and finding truth, I rest.

Isn’t it a good thing we’re not the only one who writes our own stories?

Until next time,