Before I Write the Next One

I almost didn't notice. There wasn't a countdown on my website. No confetti popped up when I hit publish last time. No little notification appeared to tell me I was getting close.

I just happened to look. 98 published posts. Which means this is number 99.

And suddenly, writing the next one feels a little different.

Because somewhere along the way, I wrote 99 pieces of my life onto this little corner of the internet. Some were carefully planned. Some started as a sentence in my Notes app that wouldn't leave me alone. Some came easily, words spilling faster than I could type them. Others took days because I knew what I wanted to say but wasn't sure I was brave enough to say it. Some were written from places of ridiculous joy. Some were written while I was desperately trying to find it.

Some pointed confidently toward God. And some were basically me saying, God, I know You're here, but I have absolutely no idea what You're doing.

Apparently both count as faith.

The Stories I Didn't Know I'd Tell

When I started writing, I don't think I understood how much of myself would eventually end up here.

Motherhood. Marriage. Ministry. Grief. Calling. Friendship. Questions. Camp. Coffee. A whole lot of Jesus.

I've written about things I understood. I've written about things I was actively trying to understand. And I've occasionally hit publish only to realize later that the person who needed to read the words most was probably me.

That's one of the strangest things about writing publicly. You sit alone with a screen and a blinking cursor. You wrestle a thought into sentences. You reread it approximately 47 times. You wonder whether you're sharing too much. You delete a paragraph. Put it back. Delete three words. Add seven more. And eventually you click publish.

Then the words aren't completely yours anymore. Someone reads them in their kitchen. Someone reads them while sitting in a hospital waiting room. Someone reads them after a hard day. Someone reads them while questioning God. Someone reads them and laughs. Someone reads them and sends you a message that says, I needed this today. And suddenly the thing you almost didn't share becomes part of somebody else's story too. I don't think I'll ever stop being amazed by that.

I've Changed Between the Posts

Maybe that's what I'm noticing most as I sit here at number 99.

The person who wrote the earliest posts isn't exactly the person writing this one.

I'm still me. Still asking too many questions. Still overthinking. Still drinking coffee like it's a personality trait. Still learning that God's timeline and mine apparently have never once been synchronized.

But I've changed. I've become a wife who understands marriage differently than she did at the beginning. A mom who has learned that motherhood looks very little like the version she once imagined—and somehow holds more love than she knew her heart could carry. A woman learning that calling doesn't always come with a tidy job description. A disciple learning that questions aren't necessarily evidence of weak faith. A friend learning how sacred it is to be known. A person learning that sometimes you need to stop trying to hold everything together and let somebody else hold you for a minute. And a writer who is slowly becoming less interested in wrapping every story in a pretty bow.

Because life doesn't usually work that way. Neither does faith.

Joy Was Never the Easy Part

The name has changed along the way, too. For a while, this space was about being Joyful in the Journey. And I still love that idea.

But eventually, Joy in the Story felt more true. Because I've learned that joy isn't something waiting for me at the end of the difficult chapter. It's woven through the whole thing.

Joy can exist beside grief. Joy can show up while I'm confused. Joy can live in belly laughs and tear-soaked prayers. Joy can look like a quiet morning with coffee.

Or a friend who stays. Or my husband's hand reaching for mine. Or my son's laugh. Or singing words I desperately need to believe. Or sitting somewhere I didn't expect to fall apart and discovering that God was already there.

The story doesn't have to be easy for joy to be real. I think that's what I've been writing toward all along. Even before I had the words for it.

So, Before 100...

I want to sit here for a minute.

At 99.

Not because 100 changes anything. There won't be a trophy. I'm fairly certain the internet doesn't mail you a certificate. And tomorrow there will still be dishes and emails and deadlines and a toddler who does not care how many blog posts his mom has published. But 100 feels worth noticing. Not because I've written 100 brilliant things. Trust me, I'm sure there are a few early posts we'd all be better off leaving buried in the archives. But because I kept writing.

I kept noticing. I kept questioning. I kept telling the truth as best as I knew how at the time. I kept looking for God in ordinary places. I kept choosing to believe there was joy somewhere in the story—even in chapters where I couldn't see it yet. And you kept reading.

That's the part I don't want to rush past.

Whether you've been here since the beginning or stumbled onto this little corner of the internet five minutes ago, thank you. Thank you for letting my stories sit beside yours. Thank you for the messages, conversations, prayers, encouragement, and occasional "Were you writing about me?" Thank you for reminding me that words matter.

So before I write the next one, I'm just going to sit here at 99 for a moment. Grateful for the woman who wrote the first one. Grateful for every version of me who wrote the ones between. Grateful for the people who became part of these stories. Grateful for the God who has been present in every chapter—even the ones I still don't understand.

And really, really grateful that the story isn't finished yet.

Tomorrow, we'll celebrate 100.

Today, I'm just thankful I kept writing.