January 24, 2015

Just a wife and mom

I used to think there had to be something more than this. 'Surely,' I thought, 'I've been created for something greater than adding cream of mushroom soup to chopped, cooked chicken. But what? What is my purpose?' (other than the Great Commission, of course, but that is everyone's purpose). The answer came to me quite quickly. Writing. Writing, for me, is like kissing my husband in the kitchen. It is exhilarating, to be sure, and yet it is the most natural thing in the world. So I wrote a novel, loving every painstaking minute of it. My blood ran warmer, my dreams came clearer, and the sun shone brighter. I was more alive than the day I was born. And then I waited. And waited. And waited. And with each passing month that no word came from an interested publisher, the picture I had of myself in my mind began to fade around the edges, until I could no longer distinguish its features. Was I an author? Or was I just a wife and mom? I no longer knew. No one was offering me a publishing contract, and because of that it seemed all of my self worth hung in the balance. I checked my email several times a day, halfheartedly attending to my other tasks. I wasn't writing anymore, as I was waiting for someone to confirm that I had talent before going to all the trouble of pouring my heart out again.
Daniel on his rented motorcycle here in Thailand.
But then we came to Thailand for January, as we are accustomed to doing. This is the place where I usually get the most writing done, since the guesthouse provides meals and laundry services. But this time the L0RD whispered, "Don't write," into my heart.  I felt Him urging me, "There will be years and years to write books, Kayla, but Gene is just a few hot showers away from needing to wear deodorant and your youngest doesn't need you between meals, and faster than an author can finish writing a mystery series, these kids will be gone." It was a big thing for G0D to be asking of me, giving up this one thing that keeps me sane. But alas His ways are higher than mine and He can be trusted, and so I told Him I would not write this month. In fact I will not write until further notice, other than this silly blog, of course, which is really more of a gift to my kids than anything else. So instead of plunking away at the computer while the kids play, I will be playing right along with them.
Eugene and his new glasses, which he refuses to wear. He says he doesn't feel like himself. If he only knew how handsome he looks!
Because you see, it doesn't matter that no one has offered me a publishing contract. Someone much more important offered me a diamond ring 13 years ago, and his are still the furry forearms I depend on to guide me through the doors of life. And every day, it seems, someone offers me a crayon drawing, or a drooping flower for my hair. I am offered handmade bracelets, faulty in the middle and too small for my wrist. Funny-colored pot holders like the ones I used to make for my own mom (and those were the only pot holders she ever used). Hugs around the middle, bleeding knees, peanut butter kisses on the mouth...all offered to me. Only me. Lucky me. And so it would seem I have come full circle, losing myself, and then finding myself again, in the daily miracle of being just a wife and mom.