Last year I pushed aside chores and sleep and normalcy for a month just to see if I could actually write for 31 days straight. I started a few days late, I didn’t have my own topic, some posts were piled together in a clump to catch up to the rest of the writers, and my poor husband’s thumbs got a workout on my hunched shoulders each night, but in the end I had created more content than I thought possible. I felt pretty proud of myself.
“Next year,” I promised myself, “I’ll be prepared. I’ll write out all the posts ahead of time, be on top of things.”
But we never know what the year will bring, do we?
This year has been a training ground for motherhood, a battleground of emotion, a hallowed ground of surrender. I have spent less time typing life, and more time marveling at the tiny life under my ribs.
It’s been a year less about forming my own creative projects and more about Christ formed in me.
But now, with an 8-month belly round over my waistband, I feel pregnant with words and stories. It seems fitting to share my own childhood with you on the brink of my own son’s birth.
So welcome! I hope you enjoy these 31 days of my childhood.