It’s that vague sense of frustration that comes from reading too many blogs and watching too many YouTube videos and imagining your life remade in too many other ways.
The frustration of the now because everything that’s coming seems so much more interesting.
The frustration with what you write – or rather, what you haven’t written but meant to.
The frustration with your body from too many half-starved models telling you your thighs shouldn’t be that jiggly.
The frustration with the meal you just cooked because you know your friend would’ve come up with something more creative, more fun, more delicious. Or at least Pinterest would’ve…
The frustration with your blog, because it doesn’t have a “thing”. Everyone’s got a “thing”. And for a sudden, blinding, completely ridiculous moment you think how much easier it would be to blog if you were a mom. Because then, on the days you didn’t feel like writing something thoughtful or beautiful or funny you could just post cute pictures of your kids or talk about breastfeeding in some magical way and people would talk about what a great “mommy blogger” you are.
The frustration with the culture wars and the church wars and feeling like you have to choose sides and be loud and onerous and fight.
The frustration with the state of half-packed belongings, unmade bed, late-nights-and-still-too-much-to-do that make you feel like you will never be productive again, never have a mind unfractured by too many details again.
The frustration with your frustration. Knowing that this moment, this season, this very breath is not without purpose. Is not without possibility and blessing. Knowing that your messy, half-finished life is doing exactly what it was meant to be doing at this messy, half-finished moment.
You remind yourself that the here-and-now is the only moment you can live in. You decide to take a walk in the sun that’s finally come out. The breeze feels glorious and you decide to put off defining yourself for another day. Because, after all, this is a journey. Messy and half-finished is kind of the point. You serve One whispers about plans for a future, while sitting happily with you in the present like a friend for whom words are not necessary.