the luck of the draw (or reader)

>> 2.12.2015

Today it occurred to me that every single person out there who writes books and blog posts that command audiences of thousands are still just one single person.

Just one. One person, with their singular thoughts and viewpoints on things, but for whatever reason, the world has risen up to take notice and now listens to what they have to say and values their opinion in some form or another.

How does this process even happen? How do you hit that lucky post or book or paragraph that defines you and draws a crowd, making everyone rise and say, "This person has something valuable to say and we should definitely listen."

Oh fate. What a fickle beast of burden you are.

Today, as I was lying on my bed after trying to get the toddler down for a nap for the third time, I had a moment of overwhelming despair (as is rather common for the stay-at-home mother on a Thursday afternoon). 'What am I doing with my life? No one sees this. No one knows that I'm even here, fighting these little, seemingly insignificant battles that all add up to one very significant life. Is this really all I was made for?'

Don't get me wrong. I know what I do is important. I know some consider it to be the most important job in the world, molding young lives. I know that I am the only mother my children will ever have, that I am the perfect mother for those kids, that what I am doing is worthwhile and worthy.

But sometimes, those creeping moments catch you unguarded, flat on your back with sweatpants on, dirty hair, and a feverish preschooler on the couch, and you are simply stripped bare to your core--"Who am I? Whose life am I living?" We all like to think that we're the special ones, the ones worth listening to, the ones ready to command the world to sit up and notice us--Hear what we have to say, oh Earth! Listen to our lofty and glorious opinions!

Tragically, most of us don't actually get a say, and the world really doesn't care what we think. And sometimes that's depressing and full of despair, but other times it's full of relief. A sigh of freedom, at the end of the night when the kids are in bed and the dishes are done and it's all you had to do. Netflix is waiting, there's a wine glass in hand, and its not up to you to save the world or change anyone's opinion on anything, other than how great 'Gilmore Girls' is. So sometimes this life is enough. Sometimes this body is beautiful, with it's soft edges and it's scars and strong arms from carrying children and creaky knees from a life of ice skating and bending and climbing and running and living. Sometimes this mind is wise, full of knowledge from mistakes made and lessons learned and facts gained from reading, reading, reading. Sometimes this heart is just tender enough, in the face of a sick son, and an accomplished daughter, and a hard-working husband, and a God who is merciful. Sometimes this soul is full up of the things God has done, the promises He has kept and the gestures He has made in this very ordinary, very important, very average life.

Sometimes the words are enough, if I'd just sit down and let them out once in awhile.

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