need to.

I need to write.

Sometimes as much as I need to eat. Breathe. Sleep. And Laugh.

Yet. I can function without it. I can make it through each day without taking the time to reflect or think in a way that forces me to use my big girl words.

I have rearranged some places in my house that got shuffled with Krystal's arrival. Tucked away in hidden corners were remnants of history and love. Life. People known and places seen. All scribbled away on perfectly smooth ivory pages, leather bound in my journals of choice: the moleskine.

Inside those books are memories. Heart cries. People. Tears. Grievances. Hope. Prayers. Pleads. Petitions. Celebrations. And so much of my heart, that I think you can feel it beat with the journal resting in your hands.

This blog has in the past served as a simple way to remain connected to home when I traveled. It fulfilled its purpose consistently. However, I remember a few weeks after it began how much it became a reflection of myself, to myself. That it became a way for me to be connected to me, when I traveled. When I was home. Regardless of where I was and what I was doing.

Sometimes its just hard for me to write on this blog. To focus long enough to sum up and collect the words and thoughts to place as a marker for this time, space, life, and thought. I also am saddened by my inability to use my hands, my favorite pen, and write it down in the moleskine. The newest one. That just waits. Each Sunday I use it for my sermon notes, and I think to myself that I need to write more. Say more of what matters. Even if for just one part of my day I'm able to put together my thoughts regarding that day. What I prayed for. Thought about, wondered, or struggled through.

I have the postcard blog that perfectly documents last year. Its a project I have so tremendously loved and enjoyed through and through. This blog has been a witness in varying degrees of commitment to my journey, story, and I pray- testimony to Christ.

I need to write. I need to write more. I need to find the time, somewhere, carved out to be real and honest. And to tell the story.

What story?

The one that shares the work that the Lord is doing in my life.

My heart.

That I am not the same today as I was yesterday as I run hard and chase after that which will sanctify and restore my life, heart, and relationships.

Writing allows me to reflect and pontificate on all things in which draw me internally, too deep into my head, and help pull me out of that somewhat silent place into a more transparent and vulnerable space.

Just some thoughts.

Why is it sometimes so hard to do what we know we so deeply need?