It’s not you, it’s me

For me, actually.

This blog, this place where I share my thoughts and musings and processings, is as much for me as it is for you.

This weekend I read a memoir titled, Stumbling Toward Faith, by Renee Altson.

It was incredible. There are no words for me describe the beauty of reading of someone else’s story, being offered an exquisite glimpse into someone else’s pain and questions, secret fears and fleeting hopes. It was a gift.

I was reminded of my need to write. Of the value of my story (and your story and sharing these stories).

Writing for me is an act of remembering. Even more, it is a discipline of thankfulness.

When God whispered to me to “write my love story” it was a command to share, but it was also a command to remember.

To remember the times I couldn’t step foot in a church. To remember the outrage I felt at injustice. To remember the first time I felt a real, a raw, a ragged hope begin to stir in my own honesty.

To remember so that I may be open to those who are still questioning, still angry, still hurt, still outside the camp, scoffing and alone.

Renee writes, “I like it in this little space of being loved. I like this newness, this fresh perspective, this ordinary holiness weaving itself into the tapestry of my life, and I want to worship something; I want to proclaim my gratitude, my awe, the miracle that I notice, that I see what’s happening. I want to hold out my hands and say thank you.”

Her book was just that: an offering of thanks.

And I hope that this blog would be a place where I could weave my own words of worship together.

To remember the first flickers of hope that led me to Love. To encourage you as you seek Love, as you seek to weave together the threads of hope and grace and redemption in your own life.

I hope you are encouraged. I hope my thoughts point to something greater than me.

I hope that, together, we can begin to acknowledge this newfound love, this newfound wonder, this everyday miracle that we can notice God’s stirrings at all.

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