I’m a little quiet this week, friends. (Don’t worry. It’s not because of all the Sad Posts. I’m hanging in there, even in spite of the new 5pm darkness. Ouch.)
No. The thing about being a Mama Writer is that you have a very limited amount of time to work, and this week, I’m using my writing time on this one big project. (I’ll hopefully get to share it with you soon…fingers crossed.)
Anyway, I’m hoping to be back with new blog posts next week. Thanks so much for bearing with me!
Today, you can catch me over at Deeper Story, where I’m blogging about wonder. (How much do you love this photo of the space shuttle launch? How I love the Flicker Commons.)
Anyway, here’s the first bit of my post:
I confess that most days, my heart is like a bratty 15-year old: arms crossed, chin raised, daring you to impress me.
I was born at the far edge of the age-group they call Generation Me…narcissistic and entitled and easily bored. I bristle at this language. I am not like that, I think. But it I’m honest, I’ll tell you that I wake up thinking about myself. I choose my acts of love or service or kindness mostly based on how much they will rock the equilibrium of my personal comfort. I am fuzzy on the line between self-care and self-absorbed.
Once I went to Bible college, and I aced my pop quiz on the Gospels and my paper on evangelicalism and my final on Theology. I’ve read the Bible, beginning and then back again. In my 29 years, I have sat through 1500 sermons – give or take – so don’t think you can tell an anecdote I haven’t heard, a statistic I don’t know…