When I was in graduate school and before, I made a goal to write every day even if it was just a blog post for my mama to read.  I wanted to work the little muscles that do things like put words together in a new, undone way, or process that inside buzzing into outside prose.  The archives of this site as well as stacks of red journals were birthed out of that season of intentional production and, if nothing else, it kept an important part of me afloat.  I was also good at other things I have since gotten clumsy at: coffee dates and faith talk and wearing heels.

I am sorry to say, the words aren't always there.  I didn't know that then.  And sometimes they are there, but they aren't cute.  When put together, they aren't dazzling sentences about late night drives and dresses and chasing the wild.  However, they can still do the most important thing: they can tell the truth.  And the memorialization of life wether it is found in a journal, the edges of Bible pages, or in an essay, this memorialization is a powerful, powerful thing.  It is necessary and important and good to tell the truth.

I call it preaching to myself.

And here goes:

I am one year into being a mama and so we threw that baby a party in his favorite space with family.  I could tell you everything I gained back in that year: the uninterrupted nights, the ability to lift heavy, the number on the scale, fitting into old clothes, the freedom of a day to myself.  All true things.  It is necessary and important and good to not only tell the truth but to tell it carefully.  I could tell you better truths.  That he wraps his arms around my neck when he is falling asleep, his fingers in my hair, and I held him hours past his bedtime the week before he pushed past months into years.  That the love this baby grew inside my selfish heart and the patience I have grudgingly practiced and the vulnerable reliance on community in this season has been something I should never stop thanking God for.  Thanking?  Praising.  Bragging.  Shouting.

I could fashion a narrative so stripped down, so focused on Him and His good work during year one that it wouldn't matter at all, in fact it would feel uncouth, to mention my physical appearance, accomplishments, activities.  It would take time.  A whole lot of time and editing and shushing of lesser things.  My pride would have to bow down.  My vanity almost disappear.  My soul though.

It might just fly with the incredible gift, privilege, honor, joy of doing what it was created to: boast in its Savior.  Year one of being tasked with the raising?  Oh friend, let me tell you what He has done.