Why I Can't Write.

My Unintentional Summer Hiatus.

I can’t write. 

If you’re a writer, follow writers, or read newsletters by writers, you may have seen the popular writing prompt of why I can’t write popping up this summer.

As a writer and a reader, at first I was intrigued. I read these essays eagerly, admiring the flow of words and clever phrases. So many writers weren’t writing because they were living. They wrote about eating peaches or spending time with their children or going on vacation or drinking their coffee or riding bikes or enjoying the sunset. They wrote about being present in the moment, soaking and savoring it all in. 

I consumed these essays as quickly as they were churned out across the internet. At first I found myself nodding along—yes, live in the moment; yes, seize the day instead of the keyboard; yes, bask in the beauty of your daily life—but then I found myself looking around at my very exhausting, weary, tiring days, and realized that while I too wasn’t writing, it was for very different reasons. 

This summer has been exhausting. Wearying. Tiring. Hard. I had a traumatic birth experience while delivering our second child in the spring, and three months later, we sold our home, moved across the country, and lived in chaos for 6+ weeks while waiting for our house to be ready, all courtesy of the military. 

I couldn’t write because I was barely keeping my head above water. Actually, that’s a lie. I wasn’t keeping my head above water. I was drowning. Everyday, drowning. For weeks on end. 

Drowning in diapers and tears and sickness and injuries. Emotions ran high as our toddler processed moving across the country, living in temporary housing, and her daddy immediately working 12+ hour days upon arriving at our next duty station. I couldn’t write because I was nursing the baby while comforting the toddler while trying to figure out why on earth the dog’s foot was bleeding. 

I couldn’t write because I was waking every few hours to check temperatures and administer medicine overnight. I slept fitfully while I had one ear on high-alert to the monitor, listening for coughing fits and tears. One ear turned to the monitor; the other ear turned towards heaven, waiting for God to answer my prayers of please make this easier, I can’t handle one more thing.

I couldn’t write because I was trying to figure out how to make dinner in the temporary apartment that came furnished with a badly burnt pot but no wooden spoon or baking sheet. I tried to feed our family and keep the kids on schedule while figuring out who set the fire alarm off and did we really need to evacuate the apartment building right before bedtime. 

I couldn’t write because I was juggling the baby in the car seat with the diaper bag on my shoulder while carrying the toddler through the urgent care doors, over and over until finally her fever broke. I thought maybe, just maybe, we were headed in the right direction.

But then my husband got sick and the dog hurt her foot by stepping on a violent plant. I cared for my sick husband while force-feeding the dog medicine while entertaining the toddler while nursing the baby. I cooked, I cleaned, I cried. 

Yet by His grace, bursts of words came to mind, and despite sheer exhaustion, I wrote them down as quickly as I could before they evaporated. I stayed up late, fingers pounding the keyboard, despite cutting into my precious sleep, because the phrase “delayed obedience is still disobedience” kept coming to mind. I know I am called to write, and while there is grace for when writing needs to take the back burner, I also need to have the grit to be obedient to write when it's inconvenient. To write when it’s hard, to write when I’m tired, to write when I don’t want to, to write when the words don’t make sense and I exhaust my emotions onto the page. I didn't have time for therapy, but pouring my thoughts out seemed to suffice, at least for a moment. Words were written, shaped into articles and essays that I doubted. With a fast prayer I hit “submit”, and didn't give the submissions another thought, mainly because I didn't have a spare moment to. 

Rejection emails arrived in a flurry, but also, some emails of surprising acceptance, particularly one acceptance that made me simultaneously cry and do a happy dance. His kindness and favor reminded me that while I couldn't write consistently, the words I wrote out of sheer obedience were worthy. 

But despite those few scattered moments, I mostly couldn't write. 

I couldn’t write because we finally moved into our house, after living with friends and in a temporary apartment for 6+ weeks. I unpacked in record-time because my in-laws were visiting and I had to take advantage of their help, especially since my husband was working and then had to leave for a work trip. My body ached from moving and unpacking boxes and rearranging furniture and hanging pictures. My soul yearned for a moment of mundane normalcy. 

I couldn’t write because just when I finally thought I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, my toddler fell off the swing and then we were back in the urgent care, which sent us to the ER. An answer to prayer came in the form of a badly sprained elbow instead of a fracture; sleepless nights ensued as she woke up crying multiple times in pain. 

I couldn’t write because in the midst of illness and injury and chaos and uncertainty, I was praying without ceasing. 

Praying for strength, patience, grace, and please, please, please just make the challenges stop and please, please, please just make this a little easier.

His silence was deafening as I felt like my life was falling apart, yet I couldn’t. As I wiped my toddler’s tears and bounced the baby, I did my best to hold mine in. Yet so many times the tears spilled over, splashing on the baby’s head as I swayed and shushed him to sleep. 

I was crying and praying for relief and to have joy and peace and comfort in the morning. 

Yet the sun would rise the next day and instead of relief, it was more rain. 

The more it stormed and rained over my days, the more I prayed. 

I couldn’t write because I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t find a spare ounce of energy to write why I couldn’t write because I was too busy trying to survive each day. 

I couldn’t write because I was too busy crying out to God, begging for help. 

He answered; in His way, in His time. 

Help came in big and mighty ways; in tiny crumbs of manna; in prayers answered in ways I didn’t expect. 

I couldn’t write because my faith was being tested—will I bend and break under these trials, or will I flex my faith muscles, and keep my eyes towards heaven, trusting that the Lord will carry me through? 

I couldn’t write because I was living an unexpected miracle—the miracle of clinging to my faith and deepening my trust in the Lord even when nothing made sense—none of which would have happened if my prayers were answered the way I wanted, when I wanted them. 

The miracle wasn't that I survived the storm or that I had all my problems solved the way I wanted—the miracle was that I held steadfast to my faith regardless of my circumstances. The miracle wasn’t flashy or a big testimony story that typically draws applause from a large crowd at a church conference. It was a quiet, behind-the-scenes, dig-in-deep kind of miracle that forever changed my heart.

But a miracle is still a miracle; and the applause and cheers from heaven matter more than any praise I’ll receive on this earth.

I couldn’t write because I was too busy living in every painful, purposeful moment—the pain that was the catalyst to setting my soul on fire to pray without ceasing, to reach for my Bible instead of Google, to purposefully lean into the Lord instead of trying to do it all on my own. 

I couldn’t write then, so that I would have the opportunity to write this now.

So that I can write to tell you, that no matter what hell you’re going through, you can rely on these three things to be true—

God is good.

God is near.

And He. Has. Won.