It’s been hard to create this week, because I’m also being a teacher to my two eleven year olds (and a chef, and a peacemaker, and a cleaner, and a finder of all things lost). Everyday. All the time. It’s sort of like when the kids were too young to go to school, and my creative energy went into them instead of into writing.
But they ARE my song. My most important creative work. As long as I remember that truth, then I guess the world can wait for more of my (super important) words (It’s not lost on me that I’m writing some right now).
Before the social distancing, I had already been convicted about the amount of time I gave to my characters, even after my kids got home. And I even struggled to repent of it, to make an intentional move toward the wellbeing and discipline of my own progeny over my characters (I can’t tell you how much joy that living in my own head affords me. It’s possible that I’m very sick).
The only way to keep from feeling frustrated past the point of self control is to submit to Motherhood. It’s how I stayed sane through the twins’ early years. I explained it that way to a professional friend, and she scorned the idea. But there is something noble and dignifying and God mirroring about sacrificing your own agenda for your children.
Anyway, it’s impossible not to. Over the next weeks, I’m not going to accomplish what I want to, or even most of what I need to. That little death to self is a good thing. Somebody keep reminding me!