I started this blog as therapy. It didn't matter if anyone read it or not, but the idea that someone might read it helped heal some of the broken parts of my heart. Thinking about someone else relating to my story made my story pour out. And then it stopped. My world tilted once again, and the writing, the need to share, the belief in the healing power of a story... my story, stopped.
I have tried (unsuccessfully) to pick up the story where I left off. I have plunked out a few unrelated posts, but my heart hasn't been in it. Sometimes I lay awake at night and the words swirl in my brain, but I don't get up. I make notes in my phone, while waiting in the coffee line, but the notes don't get translated to story. I think maybe the gift of writing was a fleeting thing. Maybe writing was just the vehicle I used for healing at that time and now I need to trade it in for another.
Then, a tragedy takes me back to my story. I take the time to go back and read what I have written. I realize there is very little "God" in my story. In truth, God was not really absent in my story, but the fact that I have not written him in, hits me hard. It is reflective of how I felt then. I felt God had abandoned me even though I knew in my heart of hearts he had not.
Where I left off in my story, this is where I really began to question God, the church, and the things I had been taught to believe my whole life. I wanted God. I prayed, but I felt my prayers were going unanswered. I went searching for God, but others may have claimed I was searching for something else. My search led me to choices that seemed very far from where I was most likely to find God.
But, HE was there.