Honesty

I always said I would wait.

I would wait until I began rocking at a really cool job, got married, had a baby, or made a meal so delicious, easy and healthy that it just had to be shared. I would wait to begin writing until I felt I had something worthy to share. 

Because, the fact of the matter is, there are so just so many crafty, talented, beautiful people out there (whom I love and adore) that make it somewhat intimidating to begin telling your own story.   

So I continued to wait, despite feeling overwhelmingly inspired by the stories and thoughts that were running through my mind on a daily basis.  And while my stories seemed rather simple and ordinary, I couldn’t help but wonder..are other people thinking these thoughts too?

My stories were of my first sip of coffee in the morning or better yet, sipping coffee with a really dear friend and how time seems to stand still and suddenly you feel really good & thankful. 

I love how warm beverages always seem to open you up.  Do you agree?

Or the story of noticing that same homeless man, every single day, on the corner of where I turn for work and kicking myself for never once saying hello.  And feeling overwhelmingly concerned when I passed by his usual corner and he wasn’t there.

Or the story of deciding to turn my music down in the car and instead talk with God, and having it feel like I was talking with an old friend, even though it had been quite a while since I had reached out to Him.  He never once stopped listening. 

Stories are happening all around us. 

And I desperately want to share, so that you too, might share with me, and together we can find hope, faith and encouragement. 

I realized recently that my hesitations for writing stemmed way deeper than feelings of inadequacy, feelings of not being crafty and creative enough.  It all stemmed from a fear of being honest.

Because the writers I love the most have a raw voice.

Their voice doesn’t pretend it’s okay when it’s really not. 

Rather it cries, gets angry and laughs really loud.

Their voice doesn’t hide mistakes and heartache, rather honors them, recognizes them, embraces them and moves on. 

And maybe, most importantly of all, their voice rarely apologizes for it’s many flaws and quirks. 

A voice like this is honest, against all odds. 

I like this voice. 

So at the core, my voice was afraid, afraid of being that honest.

I blame a weekend with Grace and Sara for my sudden vulnerability.

I met Sara and Grace freshman year of college.  Sara lived down the hall and I immediately wanted to be her friend because she had adorable style and an even more adorable nose ring.  Superficial? Maybe.   Though I’m so glad I asked her to be my friend because little did I know that she’d be the kindest girl I’d ever met.  

She's someone who can turn a pile of scraps into a beautiful piece of art.

Someone who never fails to notice the little things; a blade of grass, a dandelion swaying in the breeze, an old couple sitting on a park bench holding hands.  

Sara makes everything seem not so simple, but intricately made, purposefully made, worthy of our attention.

I’ll never forget the moment I knew Grace would be someone I not only wanted to have around for my life but also desperately needed. 

I got really sick my freshman year.  The kind of sick where all you want is to be home, lying on the couch, with mom by your side.  Moms will make you toast and tea and rub your feet and change the washcloth on your head without complaint. Though in college, when you share a small dorm room, everyone stays as far as they can from you.  Poking their head in every once in a while to make sure you’re alive but reluctant to take care of you because they too might catch the awful thing you have. 

My fever kept going up and down and one night, when I thought I was getting better, it shot back up again and I was so over being sick and everyone running from me so I laid in my bed and just began to cry, hoping the tears would cool my burning head. 

Grace came in my room, took the warm washcloth off my head, and ran cold water on it under the sink.  She placed it on my head.

She then placed her hand on my head.

Then, she prayed.

She prayed over me, asking the Lord to lift my fever and make me well.

I remember feeling the pressure of her hand on my head and began to realize, this is what friendship is.  

This is what I have been waiting for. 

So I thank these two women for reminding of what it means to be alive and be free and ultimately, be honest.  

May the stories begin:)