Some funny things have been happening lately on this blog. 31 Feet seemingly has a mind of its own.

I was going about my business this month (new full-time job, four-year-old starting school, seven-year-old back to her activities, new routine, new freak-outs), when I got a random comment from my aunt on a blog post that I didn’t post. I haven’t written on 31 Feet for ages, over a year to be exact. I investigated a little and saw that it was a random draft of a post that I never published, but saved for a later date.

Then today, two weeks later, I got a few more comments in my inbox, a random message on Facebook. I thought it was funny, so I logged in to this dusty blog to investigate. (I can’t believe I actually remembered my login information).

After reading what I wrote, the light came on. I had totally forgotten that two summers ago I started writing another monthly series and had planned to release it in September 2013. Um. Obviously I never got around to it, except for three posts I wrote and then abandoned in the drafts section of 31 Feet. Well, I guess these posts wanted out, because come September 1st, 2nd, and 3rd of 2014, they published without my knowing.

The thing is, other people noticed. And encouraged. And commented. And here I am, writing again, and Lord knows, I needed it this September.

You see, I’ve been praying about what I want to be when I grow up. I’ve been praying about writing and mothering and my new job. I’ve been praying about being the person God wants me to be and doing the right thing and following Jesus instead of all the distractions of this world. I’ve been reading about all of this, too. About being honest and truthful and brave.

It’s just plain hard to write, even though it’s something I want so badly. It’s hard to not think it’s a waste of time, when I’m not getting paid to do it or when no one else reads my chicken scratchings. Plus, “I’m a mother…hence, I’ve done enough” is a really, really good excuse not to get up the gumption to write.

But it always bothers me when I’m not writing, because writing feels honest, and it feels like me. Sometimes the version of me that I present to the world and the version of me here on the page don’t match up. And that bothers me.

Even with these really good reasons, even when I feel so much better when I’m writing regularly, it requires a lot of work and a lot of patience and a lot of courage. I don’t want to fail. Sometimes I’d rather not be honest. And getting paid for the hours I put in at my “real job” is rewarding. To be real, I’m tired most of the time. Instead of trying to dig deep and write something meaningful, I’d rather just pour a glass of wine, watch Mad Men, and call it a night around 10pm.

And then these three little blog posts appear out of nowhere. Bing. Bing. Bing. From 365-odd days ago, little encouragements from my past. And this coincidence is the tipping point to pull my laptop out, take a hiatus from Jon Hamm, and start typing again.

It’s really a funny thing that happened.