"Mommy!" She finally cried. "The snow won't come to my tongue!" And no matter where she stood, the snow fell in drops all around her, on the shoulders of her white winter coat and the tips of her fuzzy winter boots, but nary a flake would make it to her tongue. So she sighed, and we laughed, and shook the whiteness off of our clothes and buckled up into the heated car for the short ride home.
It is strange to be remembering last week's passing snow shower as we are headed into a weekend of sunny and seventy. But life can feel like that for me at times, like I am sticking out my tongue to catch the falling snowflakes and watching them fall on either side of me, all around me, but never landing where I actually want them to. Catching snowflakes with your tongue is not easy and will frustrate you, if that's what you set out to do. Part of living life is seeing that there is a beauty in the falling snow no matter where it lands.
One of the snowflakes in my life currently is this blog. Most days I barely give it a cursory thought. When I do blog it is out of obligation (which I know doesn't make ANY sense at all to those of you who don't have a blog--why feel obligated??), and sometimes, not quite as often as before, is a sense of sadness that I could never quite capture from this blog what I wanted,or used to think I wanted, which was a bigger sense of community. And, let's face it, a lot more attention for myself. Because I am selfish and prone to want things like that.
Last night Joe noticed some books on our upstairs, out of the way, bookshelf that just happened to be all of the blog books I have made each year, starting in 2007. Each year's book got progressively thicker and Joe laughed about that, commenting that we wouldn't have room left if I kept up at this rate. Feeling nostalgic, I pulled a blog book off the shelf and flipped through the pages. I laughed and then showed Joe a story. (The one about Abby eating pickled eggs. You really should read it!). He laughed, too, and flipped a few more pages, commenting on the girls' looks and the vacation we took and that funny thing Abby said. It has only been 3 years, but we had already forgotten.
Joe handed the blog book back to me and said, "Ellen, this is really amazing, that you do this. Our family will have these forever." And in typical Joe (man?) fashion, he went back to his television drama without a pause, not having any clue how much his words affected me. But he is right. Whatever else it might be, this blog is a link to our family's past, and I am so grateful that, even though I wanted to many, many times, I haven't stopped blogging. There really is no fame or fortune or illustrious writing career that should stop me from recording a bit of our family history. Not that it has to be done publically, but this is just the medium I have chosen.
God is at work in me, and in my family, in big ways. My journey of faith is so much a part of this family story that is being woven and spun and I can not possibly leave it out. One day I am going to have a huge story to tell about all that, but it is still being written, and in the meantime you will get bits and pieces and just know that I am being completely enthralled with the One who made me. I can never be the same.
One day the last story on this blog will be told, but that day hasn't yet come. I can't anymore give in to gimmicks and give-aways, and I can't, for the life of me, blog for comments and followers, but only for a simple outline of life being lived, the good and the bad, the happy...the sad.
Controlling life is like trying to catch a snowflake on your tongue. No matter how hard you try, the flakes still fall where they will fall. I don't want to miss them anymore, those snowflake moments. The pickled egg moments or the hilarious moments or the blurg moments or the downright painful moments. I have chuckled and reminisced these past few hours, over times forgotten, and renewed in myself the desire to capture the small stories. One day the small stories will be big.
And you know, there is still a little bit of room left on that shelf.