Anyone that knows me well knows my obsession with the Olympics. Don’t bother calling or texting when The Games are on. We are busy. Twenty plus days staying up until midnight to cheer on Team USA. The back stories, the random events, the theme music. I love it all.
What I love most are the stories about the athletes. I always wanted to be an Olympian. (I had no skill or talent, but I had a dream!)
I am drawn to the passion, focus and self-discipline Olympians often display.
It is no surprise then that I have been drawn in particular to the story of Michael Phelps. I’ve read all his books, and his coach’s book, and his mom’s book. I follow his wife, sister and Boomer on Instagram. I think next year will be my year for invite to Thanksgiving Dinner with the Phelps’ family.
Michael Phelps clearly has unique talent and ability. However, he and his coach assert that what truly set him apart was his determination to work harder than anyone else. He didn’t just win all those medals by luck. He was a kid from a middle class family that worked really, really hard.
In his books, Phelps talks about the roller coaster of emotions after the Olympics have ended. After the thrill of victory and the goal sheet wiped clean comes a void. Like many other Olympians, his lowest lows come right after the highest highs of an Olympic games. Despite the title of Greatest Olympian of All Time, he battled depression and burn out as he searched for purpose and meaning in his life outside of his achievements.
The comparisons between Phelps and me are few, no doubt, however in one small way I can see a parallel.
I spent the past year of my life writing a book, an Olympics of sort. In June, we arrived at the finish line. Maybe I had envisioned a glorious celebration, running across the finish line with confetti and pompoms. Instead, I felt bloodied and bruised, limping across and collapsing at the line.
When people ask me if I enjoyed writing a book, my answer is always the same: “It’s kind of like having a baby.” See, it’s fun and exciting in the beginning. Then it gets really painful and at the end you are exhausted. Everything hurts. You hurl every last ounce of energy into one final push. The reward is totally worth all the pain, but you are still in need of recovery.
That is what writing a book feels like, at least for me.
In my own small way, I think I can imagine what the post-Olympic high feels like: the goal that had been consuming your entire horizon is now behind you. What now? In the weeks following, you should feel the most accomplished. The task is complete. The goal is checked off, yet there is a void and something rushes in to fill it.
Insecurity.
Satan is a cunning and ruthless liar and he is really, really good at it. For months I have stared at my keyboard, unable to write. I claim to be an author and a blogger, but I couldn’t bring myself to write. At first words and I just needed a break. (I don’t recommend writing a book so quickly while juggling homeschooling and four kids, especially your first book where the learning curve is so steep.) But there was a deeper ache in my soul about my writing. Satan had convinced me that my words didn’t matter.
Last fall I poured my heart out into creating a blog. One post that I was so excited to share got zero views. Zero. It didn’t take much for the devil to convince me that what I had to share didn’t matter. What was the point of writing if no one wanted to read it?
Coupled with the insecurity of writing was my own personal emotional pain. Over the past three years, our family has endured some pretty significant heartaches and deeply personal wounds. All of this led me to counseling last year. Just in the past few months have things really just started to come into focus in my own heart. The Lord has taught me so much in the past few months. I have learned a lot about my own heart, how I relate to Him and how I relate to others. Painful, honest looks in the mirror of God’s Word has revealed things I never knew were there.
In her book, The 20 Hardest Questions Every Mom Faces, Dannah Gresh, points out a question that Satan often poses:
Who do you think you are?
Who do you think you are that you can lead a Bible Study? Who do you think you are that you can homeschool your kids? Who do you think you are that you can write anything that people would care to read?
For me, and I’m sure for many of you, I have swallowed the bait far too many times. However, on my own, Satan is right. I have no place writing or teaching or anything else, but WHO I am makes all the difference.
Just this morning I listened to the words of this song as I was getting ready.
Who am I that the highest King
Would welcome me?
I was lost but He brought me in
Oh His love for me
I am chosen
Not forsaken
I am who You say I am
You are for me
Not against me
I am who You say I am
I am a child of the Most High King. I have a story to tell and it’s a really good one. It’s one of unbelievable grace and love. My story is His Story.
So for now, this is what I will write about. If you have ever thought, “Oh she has it all together,” please stay tuned. I most certainly do not have it all together. However, I am growing from a place of true honesty before myself and the Lord and I would love to share it with you. I’m going to write because God has called me to be a writer, even if He is the only one that ever reads it.