I like to write. Anything from handwritten cards, typing emails, thoughts in a journal or “to do” lists, taking notes during church or blog entries–writing is something I enjoy. I was the odd student that celebrated when term finals was a twenty page research paper or when essays on tests were a major percentage of the grade. When writing I get to think. It is a conversation on paper.
I think writing flows in my blood. My mom is a role model for what I love in writing. I watch her journal at the kitchen table and admire how she is not just writing but adding color and imagery to the text. Every month she writes cards for all the occasions–birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, get well, sympathy, thank you, thinking of you–to all members of the family, extended family, or close friends. And Mom has the prettiest handwriting.
Yesterday was my writing day. I had momentum. First agenda: I finished all my drafts in my email inbox, much to my hand’s delight. I should have paced myself, because by the time I reached Stoney Creek Roasters for an afternoon tea to accompany finishing some snail mail, my right hand was about ready to call it a day.
But it was worth it. It may not have been a “veranda”, but I was able to sit by the window and look out at the luscious greenery by the creek and write.
My right hand has become very numb. There are things that are getting more difficult to do and holding a pen firm to write is one of them (sometimes just holding a pen in general depending on size). Last fall, we purchased this tool to help me hold a pen and write. At the time I did not essentially need it so I kept it in the cup of other pens on my nightstand. About a month ago, I reorganized my room including the nightstand corner. I was switching the cup to an old souvenir mug and remember taking this pen holder out because it was too big. Last I remember is setting it on my bed with a few books before I put it somewhere I reasoned to be a good spot for later use. And I don’t recall where that spot is. Thus, at the time I need it most, it is lost.
Probably a combination of my perfectionism with the sloppy handwriting, my “to do” lists or sometimes letters are sent to the trash can as I start over trying to write with more legibility. Last night, my hands were tired but on my way to bed I knew if I did not write down that I needed more orange juice for taking chemo doses that I would forget. I still forgot what it was when I looked at my sticky note this morning. I stood there like I was reading a riddle…”small..”‘–ok, what did I need that was small? It took me a few minutes but then I remembered what it was that was so scribbled. Small OJ. I threw the sticky note in the trash and wrote a different one.
Life can be like a scribbled sticky note of agendas. In trying to write out my story so perfectly of agendas, I see myself crumple the paper and restart the whole process over again…each time attempting to grasp the pen I write with just a little tighter. But my hands grow weak and I have to let go of the pen. It is only when I have complete surrender that God can post His notes to my heart reminding me (again) that my life is worth more than my own scribbled, crumpled sticky notes. It is a novel being tenderly written just for me.
The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.