My writing is dead...My Lord is Alive

I've sat down to write five times in the past twenty-four hours.


I start to type.


I delete.


I start to type.


I tuck it away to a random folder.


My writing feels dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.


Part of what I'm struggling with is what to share... so much of my life is wrapped up in work (and there are laws about sharing that), and being a new wife (and we're still not sure how the hubby will respond to being a blog topic).


But this morning we sang,

"I'll stand with arms high and heart abandoned,

In awe of the one who gave it all.

I'll stand, my soul, Lord, to you surrendered,

All I am is Yours."

And each and every time I sing that, I want, so very, very badly to live as if this is so. I don't want the words to come from a heart that isn't committed to whole-hearted passion. I want the abandonment of total service to over-ride fear, timidity, and selfishness.

So, that's why I'm writing. I'm making myself write. Writing is my outlet to praising God. Writing is a gift I was given. Writing is my passion. I have to write. Even when the words won't come.

Writing is my praise and worship.

My soul feels tired. Dry. Stretched. New phases in life will do that to you. I don't know how to be a good wife. I hadn't even mastered being single...

But that's not what I've been asked to do. Perfection has not been demanded. I haven't been asked to gush forth new words, new thoughts, new actions... perfection. I can't be the perfect wife, the perfect daughter, the perfect writer, the perfect... the perfect... the perfect...

I want so badly to be perfect.

But that's not what's being asked.

"Do not offer any part of yourself to sin as an instrument of wickedness, but rather offer yourselves to God as those who have been brought from death to life; and offer every part of yourself to him as an instrument of righteousness." (Romans 6:13)


I am just to offer... all I am is Yours.

 I thank Christ Jesus our Lord, who has given me strength, that he considered me trustworthy, appointing me to his service.

(I Timothy 1:12)

"Hi, Mrs. Skunk!"


(One of the reasons why you shouldn't introduce a skunk puppet to a bunch of Kindergarteners...)

Fifth Avenue in heaven, please?

I'm missing the City. Spending a couple weeks in a location hardly makes one a native, but it can be a little bit like eating samples at the grocery store. "Ooh, that's yummy... I want the whole package!"

I like to think that someday heaven will have a slice of the "big city" feel... I'll get my big city experience in a perfected world.

That sounds nice.

Of Red Mixers and Toothpaste... and returning to the writing rut.

It is with a gasp of relief that I am surfacing from the tidal wave of wedding planning. Granted, there's still some flotsam of residual thank you notes and extra spatulas, but for the most part, I'm settling quite nicely into the rut of being married.

Ruts are nice. I've missed my rut... I've missed writing.

And I've missed my sweatpants.

I tried being "cute" all day, every day after I got married. I managed for five whole days until the last day of the honeymoon when I broke down, "But I don't want to go out for a nice dinner.... Can't I just wear my sweatpants!? I love elastic waists! Please... can't I just be a bum?" And that evening we were sweatpant bums together.

That's why I married him-- he loves me even when I look homeless and hopeless in my men's XL sweatpants. (Why are men's sweatpants so much more comfortable than women's? WHY?)

I have been craving comfort, familiarity... Marriage is delightful. But it's different. Very different.

I'm not used to cleaning whisker-bristles off the sink, and he's not used to the fine dusting of cosmetic powder over his razor. I sort every basket of laundry, his strategy is more of a general "just get everything clean." I leave piles of shoes around every enterance. He forgets to rinse his oatmeal bowl.

He gets up at 6:00 a.m.
And sings.

I get up at 7:00 a.m.
Because he pulls me out of bed.

He carefully works up from the bottom of the toothpaste tube.
Because it's economical and careful.


I just grab the tube and squeeze.
Because it's just toothpaste and I'm in a hurry.

We are two, very different, very in-love, very fallible human beings. And we're probably incredibly entertaining to watch.

But we both love working on our new home. We both like cooking for each other. We like driving to church in the gray sunrise--praying. We like using our different wedding gifts and saying "Wasn't that nice of _____?" and "I hope our future children don't break this..." We like arguing points of literature, movies, and shopping techniques. It is wonderful to have someone to walk towards Heaven with...


He likes fixing tubs.
I like not standing in six inches of yucky water.

I like my beautiful red mixer.
He likes eating the cakes that it mixes.

It's very nice being married... I'm enjoying creating new ruts and new habits. (I'm learning how to squeeze the toothpaste.) But it's also nice climbing back into old familiar ruts...



Yes, this is Courtney as a "Mrs.", but I'm still writing.