(in)couragement:: {to dwell in this beautiful, messy tension}

photo credit: Darcy of my3boybarians.com

I laugh today, when I see my face here.  And I own that I am likely the one fussing with glasses, which are fitted poorly and keep sloping to the left – not an altogether inaccurate portrait of the off-kilter balance of my life in this particular season. And I laugh at the title, How to Give Thanks Like an Artist, because artist is a word much more familiar than writer or blogger – the terms of use most common that weekend.

It was three weeks ago now, that I had the unexpected privilege of attending a conference called Relevant, and the writing group emily p. freeman talks about in her post, those thirty minutes were, as she says, indeed a gift.  And the slices of stories shared, in that sweet circle, and all that weekend, and on blogs all over and in grocery lines and at the library – these stories do liberate and lead and encourage us further up, further in.

Somehow, though, in the midst of such sweetness and the thunder of sisters applauding the stories- really the Author (although, admittedly, we do sometimes get a bit confused)… and even after the emphasis on the value of each narrative, each piece of art, even after all that I hang here, in the tension of sharing free and unhindered, and the desire to create in the secret, for the audience of one, and letting it seep out, slow and natural, into the organic places in my very down to earth life in a little neighborhood, with strangers and family and friends right here, in real life.  It’s a mystery to me.

And so I clamor out words when they can’t be contained, but truly, I revel all the more in processing over coffee, with a person who can mirror back and challenge and refine, oh, so much more than I’ve discovered through a screen.  Perhaps it’s the season of life, where little ones pressing needs seem to enrapture and demand my attention and presence fully, or moving to a new neighborhood and desiring community that can stop by unexpected, when words aren’t planned and edited.  Or, perhaps its the raging extrovert in me, or the fact that verbal processing requires two, at least, or maybe being raised in a bustling house of sisters trained me to crave the real life contact.

Relevant threw this brewing conflict into my face. As I listened to Tsh talk about the pleasure of God, and serving in the places that our passions and skills intersect, I heard a collective “Amen, sister” in the air, a resounding “yes” to having found that sweet spot in writing and blogging. The fact that it isn’t so much, for me, in this season, sat uneasy.  Yet as the weekend unfolded, and friends listened deep and processed late into the night, I found some relief in the midst of the tension.

The voice I heard in the silence the weekend afforded, and echoed over and over again from microphones and across dinner tables and from those two a.m. conversations with new friends, that voice spoke a message that has been burned into this heart, again and again.

I don’t know how else to put it, than to simply say I came away from the weekend hushed by the love of God.  I was reminded that above all, I am called to abide, to dwell, to make my home in Christ.  It wasn’t just the weekend, it was the mercy of God unfurling all around, the weeks and conversations leading up to it, the abounding grace in how it all worked out for me to go last minute – the timing I couldn’t have planned.  It was an intersection of hunger and anointed women, sharing their stories, pointing me back to the Artist, the Author of all life, the perfecter of my faith.

I heard the same message reverberating all around: this isn’t about you, just share your story with humility and honesty. Let the emptiness sing, let the full places bubble over, and stop trying to figure it all out and control it. And something loosened up in me.  This fear that I had to perfectly represent my faith, or the Author of my faith, this idea that things needed to be tied up in neat little packages to be of worth, somehow the delusion lost its strength in the face of so many women living in the tension of the beautiful mess that is life this side of heaven.

And while I may not know where this writing is going or if blogging will become a sweet spot or fizzle out for other passions to grow in other arenas of my life, I am feeling pretty good about living in the “Who Knows?” because, really I know the One who does, and being fully known draws me into desire to simply be with Him, fully present, and follow one foot in front of the other.  To abide.  To dwell.

Tell me, do you struggle in the tension between real life and this online reality?  How have you made peace with it?