When sewing serves a greater purpose as a respite from writing fatigue
Last week, I was contemplating about the energy and time I put into writing, the unnerving pangs in my stomach that hunger for satisfaction. How quickly my mind is preoccupied with ideas that can only be put to rest in writing.
How saying my name over and over has become a routine
When I was in fifth grade, my teacher decided to give me a new name because it was easier to pronounce. I recall feeling flustered by the whole ordeal—like I had been causing an inconvenience for being who I was. This alone made it hard for me to reconcile one of her comments to me during reading group. She sat in the center of our half donut shaped table and said in a clear and frank tone that I was a scholar. I didn’t know what the word meant at the time but I asked around. I felt embarrassed to ask her myself—I was intimidated by her towering presence and her weekly assessments of our oral readings of poetry and prose, among other public speaking exercises.
A discussion about hope, faithfulness, and writing
Back in winter of 2017, I came across an announcement of Emily Conrad’s debut novel, Justice. Here, we talk about what inspired her novel, how she handles doubt, hardship, and the pitfall of perfection. This novel captures Emily’s growth as a writer just a few years after her ACFW First Impressions win (2015) and her position as an ACFW Genesis semi-finalist (2012, 2015).
The other day a dear writer I’ve come to admire shared a brief Twitter post suffixed with the hashtag of #AndThatsHowIGotThisScar. She recounts through a series of essays how she got her scar one Sunday in the City. It’s haunting and harrowing. But it is a beautiful description of transformation.
On bilingualism, language, and writing with abandon
It is a fight to write. The time it takes to settle my thoughts in front of a blank page when the urge is there and ready but my mind is exhausted from the busy-ness of the homeschool. I live the unconventional modality of the stay-at-home mom, or the work-from-home mom—my children are not shuttled to schools for long hours in the day. Nevertheless, I force myself to start new projects or continue existing ones, measuring all waking hours, making allowances for domestic tasks to go to perdition for just a little while.
When isolation from those we love draws us closer to God
We don’t always agree with those in our immediate sphere of influence, do we? As the world becomes too loud and boisterous, too polarized, I’m finding myself needing to mend my vexed spirit. How can I keep my planted feet from fighting the urge to mobilize, to keep my mouth from speaking clumsily, to keep my heart from going astray? I don’t agree with a lot of what Christianity today looks like; it’s become unrecognizable to me. I don’t know what Christianity looks like anymore.
In isolation, God sees us, and there we begin to know Him more deeply
I recently left my town to travel about 300 miles north to pick up my eldest son from my in-laws’ house. He was there for an extended visit—about a month—and my mom and I journeyed to pick him up and bring him home. Suffice to say, the trip did me well.
The perception of homeschooling, despite it now having settled itself more in the mainstream, is that it is weird. Homeschoolers are weird. They grow their own food, harvest their own eggs, grind their own wheat, and on and on.