When I was in second or third grade, my parents chose a penmanship curriculum called A Reason for Writing. It was supposed to be a great curriculum… combining the learning of good penmanship with a bit of fun and creativity.

At the end of each week, I would pull one of the pre-decorated and lined sheets of paper from the back of the book, color the illustration framing the lines and then write a personal letter to send to a friend or family member.

It should have been fun, but let me tell you… I hated that book. I just couldn’t stand that curriculum. I dreaded doing it each day. Dreaded writing row after row of curly cursive letters, keeping them uniform and within the correct lines. Combination of perfectionist and lackadaisical that I am, I would often end up in tears when I saw the red circles around letters I’d written sloppily. I wanted it to be perfect, but I just hadn’t really cared when actually completing the assignment.

But while forming an aversion to writing, I was actually discovering, in my free time, a love for writing. Real writing. Not the “cross your t’s and dot your i’s” kind of writing, but the art of putting words to a page. Of capturing an abstract thought and harnessing it into something another person might understand. Of having a concrete place to save all my imaginings, my fears, my joys, my craziness.

When I turned seven, a grandmother-like figure gave me my first diary. It was beige with little hearts on the cover and the pages numbered by the days of the year. Best of all, it had a lock and a key. At seven years old, nothing could be more nifty than that. After the party was over and my little friends were gone, I turned to April 1, put my Lisa Frank pencil to the paper… and unlocked a little bit of magic in my heart.

By the time I was nine, I’d begun my first “novel.” My writing buddy, Nicole, had given me a thin three-ring-binder and a stack of paper after I’d read the first chapter of her “epic novel” and decided to start my own. Over the next couple years, I made it four whole chapters into my book, entitled Agarn Life. It was the story of the Agarn family (making up odd and outlandish names was also one of my hobbies) and their adventurous life on the prairie. I have absolutely no idea where that plot came from. It couldn’t possibly have had anything to do with the Little House books I was pouring over. I don’t remember much of the story line anymore, except for the fact that around eleven or twelve years old, I realized I’d better hurry this story along if I hoped to get it published sometime soon–as I was certain it would be–so I decided to do something drastic and kill off the family patriarch. He was trampled by cattle or something equally dramatic.

Over the next several years, I filled countless spiral notebooks with stories, wrote to dozens of pen-pals regularly, and faithfully wrote in my journal. During my particularly eventful and ridiculously drama-filled sixteenth year, I easily filled three entire journals in about six months.

In a girls’ magazine I subscribed to during my teen years, I once read a short piece which called writing in a journal a “record of God’s faithfulness.” That little phrase stuck with me. Record of His faithfulness.

Is that what I was doing? I wrote in my letters and journals about my daily life, my ups and downs, my deepest thoughts and feelings. My stories were reflections of my imagination; often dreams written on paper. What was the point of any of it? Was it a “record” of anything, or just mindless words written by a young girl?

As I got a little older and the trail of my life rounded some unexpected corners, I continued to fill the pages of my journals and even still write short imaginative pieces. But soon most of the fictional stories were left, half-finished, in notebooks tucked in keepsake boxes. The pen-pals grew up and the letters became less frequent or moved to email instead. Even the journals into which I’d once poured my heart and soul were being opened less and less often. After a particularly difficult time during which I’d written page after page after page in my journal, only to later realize that, in fact, I’d not even been honest with myself in the folds of that little volume, I became less comfortable with putting my thoughts on paper. What was really the point anyway?

Soon I had a husband who was a quiet kind of guy and would listen to me ramble on and on and on for hours every evening. On the lines of my pretty little journal I’d write particularly meaningful scripture references, sometimes accompanied by a few brief thoughts. But now that I had someone who would listen to my ongoing and endless ramblings about life and such, I rarely wrote much about it on paper anymore.

Then I heard that some of those old pen pals and the girls who had read those sweet teen girls’ magazines were actually still keeping in touch with each other–they’d all just moved online. I visited the online journaling site and saw names I recognized and quickly found old far-away friends.

And then, one night, while on the phone with my best girlfriend who was also perusing through the lists of mutual old friends…

I signed up.

A few days later, with great embarrassment, I told my mom that I’d started writing entries for these online friends to read. She told me it was called blogging. I told her no, it couldn’t be blogging. Blogs were written by important people and were about current events or politics. This wasn’t a blog. Couldn’t be a blog.

But I soon discovered this was something I loved. As a bride of less than a year who was adjusting to my new life, I filled many a post with thoughts, emotions, stories, pictures, and quite a bit of craziness. It was, for the most part, just like my paper journals and the letters I used to write. Only this time I had more of an audience and actually received feedback each time I wrote a entry.

I was writing again. And suddenly one day I realized it felt like I’d come full circle. Just as the ebb and flow of my life had changed, so had the way I’d expressed my thoughts. I was back to square one. I’d fallen back in love with writing.

It didn’t take long before I came to terms with the fact that I was, indeed, blogging. It was true. I had a blog, and I’d jumped in with both feet.

As probably almost every one of you can relate to, I was soon an addicted blogger, spending an utterly ridiculous amount of time on the computer. I can definitely say, “Been there done THAT!” Thus began the ongoing battle of keeping the proper balance between this thing we do called blogging and my high calling to real life as a wife and mama. I took breaks, returned to my blog, renewed my commitment to balance–several times. After a few years, I left the private online journaling community and made the move into the full-fledged, public blogosphere. Last summer I had an unfortunate experience which shocked me into remembering just how public this all is, had to move again, and finally landed. Right here.

Sometimes I wonder why on earth I’m doing this. I’m not a great writer. I don’t remember all the rules of English. I don’t “make” anything from what I write. Like most of us, I don’t have hours of free time just waiting to be filled. I get overwhelmed at times, with either the fact that people I don’t know actually read what I say, or the fact that my usual “voice” here on my blog doesn’t always reflect what my heart wants to say. I get caught between having enough time to read other people’s blogs and having time to write on my own. I find myself, once again, spending too much time on here and have to step back and reevaluate my priorities. I would be lying if I said I haven’t come very, very close to ending this blog completely.

But then I remember. I can’t not write. I can’t stop putting my thoughts and my everyday life into the written word any more than I can stop talking to my family or stop living my life. God has given me a love for capturing those thoughts and dreams and, yes, even the craziness–harnessing them and finding just the right word to express them, whether for just myself to read, or for a group of friends I happen to call my bloggie peeps.

I’ve also found something interesting.

Just as my life has had many ups, downs, and sideways journeys, the thing I fell in love with at seven years old–writing–has mirrored every aspect of that. It has taken a journey of it’s own in my life. Just as I can look back through my old journals and see what I was going through at that time and only fully understand the magnitude or the relative insignificance now, I scroll through the old posts here and in each of my old blogging homes and whisper to myself, Wow. Look at how that turned out. Look. Look at what God did. Remember where I was back then–even just a few weeks ago–and look at where we are now.

When friends in “real life” find out that I have a blog, they often ask why. Why do you blog?

I’ve heard people say that a Christian shouldn’t blog unless it’s to share Scripture or lay out the plan of salvation in each post. I’ve read posts where bloggers have criticized other bloggers for posting about life rather than posting more deep spiritual thoughts. I’ve questioned myself numerous times… why do I blog?

I blog for this reason: My creative Lord and Savior has given me a love of the written word, and I choose to use that love for the lifting up of His name. My regular, ordinary life is a daily testimony, through the good, the bad, the lovely and the not-so-lovely, of His work in the life of one of His children. I seek to honor Him in everything. Everything. Whether it is a post about His amazing power and strength to get me through a difficult time, or it’s a silly picture of one of my boys, or it’s a crazy anecdote about a completely wild day in our home–it is all part of the life He’s given me, and it all reflects Him and His glory. His power and strength are amazing… He has made my boys hilarious and silly… He reveals Himself more real than ever, in a million little ways, when we have completely wild and adventurous day around here. He is in everything. So I give Him everything.

And that… that, is my reason for writing.