Skip to main content

300 and Counting

It dawned on me a couple of days ago that when I publish this, I will have written 300 blogs. It's a little hard to wrap my brain around--300! I honestly never saw that happening. I barely got the first one published, and even that took almost 3 years. I didn't think I had anything to say. Ha, fooled everyone, including myself!

In looking back over my posts, I see that I have written about everything from my relationship with God to recipes, from my travels to my grandchildren. I've written about my thoughts, emotions, and prayers. I have shared just about everything — even my dreams and desires. Yes, I think I've covered it all... and yet I believe there is so much more.

I have learned a lot about myself throughout this experience. I've learned that I am in love with Jesus, that I am exceptionally sensitive, and that I love others more deeply than I thought possible. I have allowed God to touch my life, and in turn, He has used me to touch the lives of others. How do I know this? Well, I get a lot of emails, texts, and calls from strangers, friends, and family sharing their experiences concerning their own lives. I love hearing from others. I love that they are somehow "ministered to" by my blog. I use that term because that is exactly what is happening. And I think that is why I keep writing. Even when I think about shutting this whole blog thing down, I don't. I've tried before, and then — I feel compelled to write, and I end up blogging again.

Maybe this has become an addiction of sorts. One thing is for sure--it has become a form of therapy for me.  A way to write about my feelings, and get out all those crazy, mixed-up thoughts that swirl around in my head like noodles.  I can sort them onto a page (and by page, I mean a laptop) and then examine them; I can try to sort and categorize them and lay them out in a somewhat organized fashion. At least I try to do that.

Yes, number 300 is about to be published. Scary to think about, and yet very exhilarating.  I like writing. I like blogging. I like that you read them. I like that I feel encouraged to keep on doing this thing called blogging. Yes, I do.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Don't Tell Me You're a Missionary

I grew up in the church. I was raised from age six on in a pretty large Protestant denomination. It was called The Assemblies of God.  And what I am about to share, question, and ask about is going to make you mad. It isn't that I want to make anyone angry; it's that I have so many questions. Every Sunday, we went to church as a family for a morning service and, back then, for an evening service. They were different in that in the mornings, it was a little more formal, singing, announcements, and the sermon. In the evening, a lot more singing and a lighter sermon. I truly enjoyed the evening service. I love to sing, especially about the God that I serve. We also had a midweek service that was much more like a Bible study time. Smaller, more intimate, more studious. As a teenager, I went to a youth group. I also went on mission trips—as did my children. I'll write more about that later.   I have gone to church my entire life. I raised my children in church, and they still go...

Reverend

Reverend--that's what they called him. When he preached. In the Congo. To 2,321 people--Africans. From all over, they came. It was a quarterly church meeting, where they gather 4 times per year to worship together. 20 local congregations, 3 hours long. Singing, praising, worshiping. But that's not the real story. The real story happened at the same time, on the same day, here and abroad. A miracle. I call it that because that is what it was. It was something that only God could do. When I wrote my last blog, the one about my husband and his "come to Jesus" meeting, well, little did I know that God was also speaking to my husband about sharing that exact same story with the congregations in the Congo. When he was able to make contact with me later that same day, he told me how God had been dealing with him about sharing his "testimony". He had been unsure, and when I asked him if he had read my blog from that morning, he said no. I was stunned. He hadn'...

I Miss Him

Today is a hard day. I have them often. Hard days. Days when no matter how much I try to hold in the tears, they come anyway.   I tell my daughter to feel the feelings. To cry the tears. To remember the times of laughing, hugging, and memories. However, for me, it is almost impossible to control my emotions. They rise up when least expected. I should listen to my own advice. I can only imagine what today and tomorrow will be like for her. And that's another reason to cry. I grieve for her and all her pain. As a mother, I want to absorb it all for her. My pain is bad enough, but hers? It's on another level entirely. I miss my grandson. It is Christmas Eve, and he's not here. He should be. He should be here, getting ready to go on another one of Grandma's little adventures, no matter how crazy or dumb or silly they are. It usually involves food (ok, it always involves food), then some shopping, and don't forget the family pictures. So many pictures. My advice—take the...