This is one of those topics that sounds great in my head but inevitably feels so lame when I see it typed out. So Jesus-y and preachy.

I always imagined that when you’re hard pressed for money, God would magically write a check made out to you and zap it into your mailbox, something akin to the tooth fairy. How else would it happen? Maybe raining money, or simply finding an envelope full of ca$h somewhere. Is that so much to ask?

But instead, what I’ve found is that He sneaks it in by making you work for it. Ugh. Such a disappointment. (please don’t report me for blasphemy) You may know that over the last few years I’ve cobbled together a patchwork-like collection of jobs that mostly have very little to do with each other. I work for a church, I work for a stationery designer, I do a little designing of my own, I work for a couple of florists in town, I babysit, I worked at a biscuit place briefly, I worked at Paper Source, now I just teach lettering workshops there, I worked in a showroom as people bought thousands and thousands of dollars worth of beautiful homewares. I’m probably forgetting stuff. As you can imagine, it’s not a dream salary. So sometimes things get tight and I start panicking about money and finances. The bank account keeps getting lower and I am a bundle of anxiety bopping around like a balloon ready to pop if you hit it just the wrong way.

That’s usually when I get an email that goes something like, “Hey! I need some extra help this week, do you have time?” AND THEN I MAKE MONEY. The balloon slowly deflates to a more manageable size (because let’s be honest, we’re all anxiety balloons all the time to some degree) and bills get paid, the gifts get bought, the dinner doesn’t get cancelled, the tithe doesn’t empty the checking account. It took several of these well-timed employment adventures for me to realize that it wasn’t mere chance but a beautiful orchestration of care and teaching.

I care about your bills getting paid. I care about you being able to keep that coffee date with a friend. I care about your anxiety. I care about your balloon metaphor, that was cute, good job.

That’s God. He thinks my metaphor was cute.

But also, remember that I care about you. Remember that if you are that balloon, it’s for a good reason. I want you to learn to trust me. I want you to remember you can come to Me before you pop and I’ll make sure you don’t. I want you to learn that I’m here, waiting to hear your voice directed to Me.

God really likes this balloon thing. (Okay but really am I getting blasphemous? All in good fun, y’all. Pinky promise. I’ve got some embarrassing moments that prove He’s got a sense of humor.)

Weird self-praise aside, I really do believe these things. I pray a lot more now, and I reap the benefits, believe me. I never thought I’d be one to piece together several different jobs to try to make a whole one. I’m not great at it yet. It’s hard and exhausting. Establishing boundaries isn’t easy either. But little by little, job by job, one-off by one-off, I’m learning and trying new things and hoping that soon I’ll see why. But I at least have a piece of that big picture, even when I have to work for it.

Hi hello, it's me

Only a few weeks into the year and I am majorly struggling with this blogging commitment. I have started and scratched three different drafts of my next post?

Quick aside- there is a mom a few seats away from me at this coffee shop with two fairly boisterous little boys, and the woman across from me has been shooting them the side eye every time they squeal while also emitting a quite audible “UGH.” Mama over there ain’t noticing, but UGH lady is changing the side eye game, you guys. I am in love with this seating arrangement.

Okay back to the point. I thought I would feel so freed by putting the proverbial pen to paper each week, putting all of the thoughts swirling around in my head somewhere else where I don’t have to keep them in line anymore. But it’s hard. Everything I try to write feels so contrived, so “wow, stop trying so hard,” so forced. Who wants to read these things? Who really cares? How self-absorbed am I to think I have so much wisdom and wit to share with the world that I’ve been depriving it for so long?

This is why I always scoffed at people who started blogs. I mean it goes to show you that whatever you scoff at, you become. I swore I would never be the girl to get married straight out of college, to never live on her own, but hi hello, it’s me. I never thought I’d be the one to suddenly think, “how and when did I gain this weight? What’s wrong with me?” I never thought I’d be the one to struggle with suicidal temptations. I would never be one of those people. But again, hi hello, it’s me.

Maybe by the end of this year I’ll have learned how to not use blogging as an excuse to ramble barely-connected thoughts. But I’m already a week behind so anything goes.

52 is a lot

I have a good friend, Linda, who blogged once a week for the whole year in 2017. Usually when I “commit” to something like that, it doesn’t last. I tried to do something similar where I talked about a different color every week, but didn’t make it. Scroll back through these posts to find the failed attempt.

But what is January without (hopeless) resolutions being declared left and right? So here we go. I’m blogging every week for 2019. I kind of cheated last week and posted something I wrote in late December, and I’m cheating this week by introducing my intentions, but so far so good? 2 outta 2?

So what is to be expected? Great q. Usually I turn to the blog when needing an outlet for sad times, so probably some of that (hey, last week). Maybe reviews of Gilmore Girls episodes (I usually skip most of season 2 but I’m really feelin it right now. Holler if you wanna chat about it.). Maybe some more goals and aspirations. Who’s to say?

Have I written enough for this to count as blogging? I think so. See you next week. And the next one. And the next one. And the next one.