What?
(You may wonder.)
What would keep a writer from writing for an entire year?
- Five months of rotating house-guests from home.
- Gleeful historical research: into Israel’s canyons, or the Army camps of WWII.
- Trading two beloved teammates for a succession of strangers.
- Two months walking a lazy dog up a Switzerland-worthy switchbacked road.
- Teaching two languages.
- Editing three books.
- The Home-going of three of my heroes, including my Grandma.
- Four months of whacking a sticky space bar (a speech impediment for my fingers).
- A five-day dust storm that holds the 70-year record.
- Five months of violence on our streets.
- Becoming just a little more Jason Bourne.
- A harrowing, glorious miracle that isn’t mine to tell.
- One heart on hold.
- Two moves: one across town, and one across the world.
- A two-week-old computer, still not fully set up. (I know I’m slow, but that’s a third move, my friends.)
- The birth of one wee nephew, who lives next door for now. (I get to hold him all the time!)
Or perhaps something with far less melodrama: the simple belief that writing had become a luxury.
If this reentry fog is any indication, then I’ve been exactly wrong. For the last month, ever since I arrived at my American home, my internal GPS has been stuck on “recalibrating.”
So I think it’s (well past!) time to remember the gift God gave me: the way I weigh what’s going on.
With words.
Plus: here you are! Hello, and welcome.
Most of all: There’s still so much of His love to tell.
I’m pretty sure that writing isn’t a luxury, after all.
Elisabeth Adams 