I've resisted blogging for years. I'm convicted you ought to do all things well. No half-hearted, shoddy efforts. Although in real life I get by with a mediocre effort, because that's real life and I'm exhausted at the end of every day. If so many people were blogging, and some so well, I didn't want to disappear into the uninspired, unread masses.
Bryan, however, kept enouraging me, telling me I have wisdom to offer, searching for time in my days to sit and type out my ideas. The crux of his argument was that I like to write, and so I should write regardless of the outcome. I do like to write. If you could get inside my head you'd find me composing sentences, and reworking the words, ten or a hundred times over. I ponder how to describe the quality of autumn light, sun warmed hair in the garden, or golden sun on the honey floor and how it reminds me of the blessings of heaven. It's my secret life.
I decided to blog, not for my audience, but for myself; for the pleasure of setting out line by line the thoughts that fill my days.
Yet, as soon as my first words were on the screen, I did have an audience. An audience I had to shoo away, "You are not allowed to read over my shoulder." Not because of the content, but sometimes a mother needs a little space. When the words are done, I move aside and let my lovely girl, who's watching my life so closely now, sit and read. Then three more excited faces crowd in, though one only thinks he can read. And Bryan comes in the door and asks, excited, "Did you blog?" I have an audience. You, if you read this, are welcome, but I'm writing for them.
Like so many other things in my life, I thought I was doing this for myself. Instead, I'm doing it for my family. That is just the way it ought to be.