What better way to begin Lent, the season of repentance and preparation, than with a confession?
I have not felt like writing in quite some time. And I haven't actually written in quite some time.
That second part isn't entirely true- I've written when it has been required of me.
I scraped together mediocre papers in the fall semester, with a few extensions along the way.
I have written sermons, although I admit I've done my fair share of searching through my personal archives to find an older pice that will suffice, rather than creating something new.
I have written call to worships, opening prayers, and communion liturgies, although my heart has not truly been in it.
There has been no creative writing, no jotting down of ideas, no work done on my thesis.
My journal entries consist of "To Do" lists instead of reflections on my day and my heart.
You may be thinking: this is not necessarily a bad thing. Motivation comes and goes, we all go through dry spells. You may not think even counts as a confession.
And you would be right.
My confession is not so much that I haven't felt like writing, but rather why I have been unable and unwilling to pick up my pen.
My confession is that I have not written because I have been afraid.
I have let fear keep me from doing one of the things I love most. let fear take the upper hand, let fear silence my voice, let fear cause my spirit to build up walls so that I've spent most of these past months living in my head and not my heart.
I always thought that when I was blessed with the gift of bearing new life I would write about it.
Poems.
Prayers.
Reflections.
Letters to the baby.
I thought I would fill journals and sketchbooks with creative outpourings of joy.
The day I found out I was pregnant was a flurry of shock, surprise, and joy. In all the excitement I forgot to pick up my pen to memorialize the words I had so longed to cry out:
I'm pregnant!
I didn't write.
We had our first ultrasound very early- at only six weeks -where we discovered there was not one, but two little beings growing inside me! I laughed, and cried, and gasped then laughed some more...
but I didn't write.
There was a chance, the doctor said, that one of them would get "absorbed." We would have to come back, at eight weeks, to see if there were still two.
I could not commit those words to paper. Even though the words were written on my heart, I couldn't bear to have them written in ink, to be returned to days, months, even years later if we lost one of our babies.
So I didn't. write. anything.
All is well, and has been well, and our two little girls are growing like weeds, their movements in my belly a constant reminder: We are here!
But still I've been afraid. Afraid that this is all too good to be true. Afraid something will go wrong. Afraid of making myself vulnerable to potential hurt by recording these moments of joy and wonder, in case something doesn't work out.
The words of our mouths are like ether. They float in the air and then dissipate into nothingness. The hope or sorrow they convey is truth, but it is fleeting, and can easily be forgotten.
The written word is different.
Once is has been written it cannot be undone.
It can be scratched or rubbed out, even written over, but a remnant will always remain.
It is there to be returned to, over and over again.
The written word is REAL.
So I confess I have allowed my fear to keep me from living fully into this incredible experience happening inside me. I confess it, and I ask forgiveness and freedom from this fear, trusting the words that appear again and again in our holy, written words: do not be afraid, I am with you.
I finally sat down the other day, opened my journal, picked up my pen, and took a deep breath.
"Oh my darlings," I began, and then a miraculous thing happened. The words flowed. Nothing flowery, nothing heart wrenching or particularly warming. But the words came. It was easier than I thought it would be, and as I wrote I breathed a sigh of relief, because I was no longer afraid.
And finally, I got up the courage to say what's been on my heart these last six months:
"I love you both so much.
I can't wait to meet you.
Love,
Mommy"
I think my Lent began with a kind of resurrection.
Thanks be to God.
