There are large windows in my room. They're the kind that take up almost the entire wall. My bed is up against the largest, and just outside is a tree, currently dripping from the heavy downpour that has steadily continued for these past few hours.
I’ve been watching the lightening, listening to the thunder, lying on my bed watching the sky brighten and darken.
It’s a wonderful view. Here on the top floor of my apartment complex, with huge windows, I can watch the bolts streak across the sky. There’s a huge storm rolling in, the kind that puts us on tornado watch and makes a cup of tea perfectly necessary.
There's a candle flickering in the background; I watch the shadows dance on the ceiling and the wall, the scent of vanilla wafts through the air, mingled with that beautiful smell of clean laundry.
It’s spring. I didn't realize that April could be so beautiful and devoid of cold weather. 80 and sunny is drastically different from 30 and slushy. The south is treating me well.
My eyes are closed, my fingers are typing, creating words that my brain only slightly acknowledges, furiously moving as the time passes. I don't need to see the screen or watch my hands, but can sit here, resting, and tell you a story.
Stories are what make us who we are. Our stories are unique, our perspectives our own, the lens through which we see belongs to us and no one else. We aren't the same, you and I. It's a beautiful thing.
One of my favorite characters of all time recently said,
"Souls are made of stories, not of actions."
Our ability to weave moments together into tales that pierce the soul and impact the ones who listen is a huge deal. Stories tell of who we are.
I haven't been very good at telling stories lately. The art of storytelling is hiding deep within me, and I've let it sit there because the stories I have to tell simply haven't been my favorite.
A friend asked me yesterday if I have been writing. Sitting in the passenger seat of her car, I sighed and said no… No, I haven't.
"Is it something I should ask about?"
She sounded concerned as I stared out the window, not super willing to discuss it. I shrugged my shoulders and wondered what I could say to her about the matter.
Well. Um. You see…
I have lots of excuses, but I know they're not valid. They're just excuses. My way of pretending – of convincing myself that there's a reasonable explanation for not writing at all in the past six months or so. I haven't blogged, or journaled, or essayed. Haven't read. Haven't really wanted to expose myself to what might come from my own fingertips.
It's the longest writing drought I've experienced since I started chronicling my life in seventh grade.
And it's killing me.
I told her what I've been trying to tell myself – that I honestly just don't want a record of this time. I don't want to write about it and look back five or ten years from now and see exactly how angry or bitter or frustrated I was about certain things that are happening in my life.
Which, I must admit, is stupid, though it sounds brilliant in my head.
Every year, every day, every life has ups and downs. And while I've been busy avoiding writing about the hard things, I've missed out on the glorious blessings that I could tell about.
I've chosen to stay silent rather than open my heart and mouth.
Which means I haven't told the good stories, either.
The stories of moments that I laugh so hard, it hurts my sides and abs for days. Or of spending a week with two of my squad mates in Florida sunshine to escape the Minnesota winter. Of worshiping with fifteen hundred college students and hearing them talk about missions. Of setting up a tent and having sleepovers in my room with college friends. Of how the Lord's provision is perfectly timed and always enough.
I have held onto the stories of building forts and quality time and roommate dinners and new jobs and good food. Of God-conversations at gas stations and sermons that are literally, seriously meant just for me. Of running in tutus and sunshine through clouds and setting suns on Lake Lanier.
My life is made up of stories, and some of them aren't pretty. Some of them are hard, some of them downright suck. But everyone has hard stories.
Not writing about them won’t make them disappear. It won't make them vanish.
I don't need to apologize to anyone for my silence, or my hiatus. I don't need to justify my unused keyboard or explain my reasoning.
But I can start telling stories again.
And if I were to begin again today, my story would probably start like this:
Rainy nights make the best reflection nights, with the constant patter of drops and the absence of most all other sounds…
I'm moving websites and will no longer be blogging here on the World Race page!
New blog at jennamalinen.wordpress.com.
Click HERE to go check it out.
