I’ve been thinking a lot about the kind of writer I want to be.  Not the content which I write about, but rather, the kind of person I want to be—the sacrifices I’m willing to make, the kind of time and attention I want to give to my writing, etc.  It’s so easy in life to look around us—to see what she’s got going on over this way—to see what seems better over that way, and then before we know it, we condition ourselves to gauge our self-worth based on how we measure up to the people around us.

I must say, as a new blogger, or writer, or whatever you want to call me, it’s really easy to look at the success of others and wonder if I should be taking more glamorous photos of myself and my home.  I begin to wonder if I’d get more “likes” or “hits” if I were more consistent—if I were posting on my Instagram account more than once/day or if I were posting on the blog more than once/week, but I’ve come to accept that right now my capacity is what it is.  It’s low.

But man, you guys, it’s easy to get things mixed up.  It’s easy to begin putting this blog, and the writing into the “needs to get done” category instead of the “gift” category.  I get to write as a release from my everyday mundane.  I get to write about the everyday mundane, and hope that it’s interesting enough to read about.  I get to take sweet photos of my children, and I get to keep our lived-in home just the way it is.  I’ve decided that I’m not the woman who’s willing to clean my house just to take a photo “worth” posting.  I am not the woman who will put on loads of makeup or change my stained t-shirt just to show that I’m the mom who can do-it-all and still look like a model, because that’s not me.  I can’t, I don’t.  I buy my kids’ clothes on clearance or second-hand, and hardly any of them are anything but Old Navy, Gap, Target and Kohl’s.  I am proud of our messy house because it means that we’re living in it and playing in it and saying “that’s okay!” to each time one of our sweetie’s spills or pees on the couch.  Our treasure is not here.  Our treasure is not here.  Our treasure is up there—hidden with Christ.  And the only thing that makes it up there is our soul—our hearts, our relationships—the investments we make in things that don’t perish, namely, our people.  Our little people, our neighbors, our family, and the least of these.

So this post, I suppose is a post to myself—it’s a post to remind myself that my worth, my value is not in the attention that this site gets, it’s in the joy that it brings me, and hopefully to some other people along the way.  This is a post reminding myself to stay the course—to hold tightly to the ordinary, for that’s what we are—we’re all just ordinary.  We can scroll through our Facebook or Instagram feeds and marvel at pristine homes or the trendiest clothing or the next thing we feel we need, but those things don’t make us who we are.  I am so very grateful for my ordinary life and home and family—because it’s in the sweet smiles and the spilled milks and the toy-covered carpet that I get choose it again and again.  We may not have the most beautiful love story, but we have love.  We may not have the perfect kids, but we have some pretty darn sweet kids.  We may not have it all, but we have a lot, and that’s just right for me.  Thank you, Jesus, for the days you’ve strung together for me, for I get to call them my life.  I sure hope it’s one that brings glory and honor and praise to You.