In the Closet: Keeping Secrets with God in a not-so-secret world
Essay 3
The wise woman builds her house, but with her own hands the foolish woman tears hers down.
Proverbs 14:1
I kept a blog for nearly ten years before anyone ever read it. The settings were toggled to private, and only my aunt, a few friends, and one brother had permission to access my writing.
Over the years, as was typical in the kingdom of bloggers circa the 2010s, I posted my stream of conscience, day by day thoughts. I rejoiced, I complained. I posted pictures of my pregnant belly, kids and the funny things they say, silly stories, sewing projects and house renovations, recipes, travel recaps, musings on forgoing a career to stay at home, and veiled references to my struggling marriage (even silence speaks volumes, doesn’t it?). Ten years of this during naptime several times a week, because I loved to write, of course, but I also knew the seven people who read it were refreshing their screens and expecting an update from me. It was everything every other blogger was doing, except barely anyone saw it. Nearly 1,200 daily posts logged and my audience never included anyone I didn’t already send a Christmas card.
Daily I debated making it public. Believe me, I wanted to be known. In the midst of living a very lonely life on a mountain with a handful of kids (one whom we feared was showing signs of Asperger’s), I was afraid. I was timid and unsure. I was overprotective. I especially didn’t care to invite any extra interference and advice from distant and well-meaning relatives. But deeper than my insecurities of making myself known there was a sense that some things were meant to keep private, though I couldn’t explain it in words. It was an anthem to which I paid deepest respect: Not everyone needs to know everything. You have a right to remain silent.
The voice sounded like a wise old friend and I let it whisper over me as I typed out words that few eyes would ever see.
I printed these posts out on books. Whenever I pick them off the shelf and flip the pages, I am overwhelmed by the busyness of it. Like a diary, it packs almost too much incessant thinking and feeling and obsessive-compulsive recording of babies and tiny kids and their penchant to destroy my house again and again. It documents a thousand days of frustration with my living arrangements, relationships, dreams forsaken. I tried not to let my writing voice sound whiny, but it inevitably does, especially if you are reading page after page of potty training (and failing) episodes. It is nearly unbearable, and though I’d originally thought I’d pass it on to my kids as a fun memory book, I realize now I wish I hadn’t spewed just every old thought in black and white; much less printed it off. The writing that at the time was therapeutic is not endearing at this point. My voice–a mix I hoped struck a unique balance between Ann Voskamp and David Sedaris (beautifully poetic, sincere and ridiculously hilarious) –is mostly annoying and petulant. It is grating and loud–a well of bitterness mod-podged with self-deprecation. These are soul-bearing journal entries at best, no better than my elementary school diary where I swore I would be an Olympic figure skater someday despite living nowhere near an ice rink. I had better sense back then–I kept that miniature pink and white diary locked with a tiny key and well hidden from pesky older brother. Never did it hint at teetering on the precipice of something bigger.
In hindsight, I wonder how much time I wasted pursuing a weirdly private pipe dream of blogging. My writing did improve, I suppose, but maybe I should’ve been taking naps during naptime instead of stoking the fire in my bones to postulate and preserve posterity. God was a witness to these years, but at the time I was deeply unsatisfied with the thought. I wanted more attention, the type that would leave a comment and indulge my self-actualization. I wanted to document the difficult and the funny, yes, but I wanted witnesses that would attest to my becoming, to my forthcoming and well-deserved popularity. I secretly hoped I had it in me to be Pioneer Woman, who, somehow with a DSLR camera and a bit of free time, was able to re-popularize church cookbook recipes that called for apples, a tube of crescent rolls, and a can of Mountain Dew. I wanted to take macro photos of crumbs and spiders, spinning my own web of quirky, endearing snapshots-in-the-life. I wanted the internet to zoom into my humble life and shout out to the world, look here! She’s written a recipe you’ve never read before! She’s clever and witty! She manages to be creative and keep her house clean all at the same time! I wanted people to love me with comments and confessions– “in real life we could be best friends! You’re practically my twin!”
I wasn’t satisfied with my own gifts: the babies, the husband, the quiet life.
Now I feel ashamed to admit it: I wanted fame.
But I didn’t want to fail in public, and the small voice pestering me to not toot my own horn ultimately kept me silent and unknown. The blog, printed on five bound books, is a tome, my monument dedicated to a desire to be seen.
Obviously, I’m still a bit torn–me, the thirty-six year old mature woman who should be over it by now, grazing in greener pastures. I can’t lie: I’ll never know what could have been. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had made it all public. Would I have scored that book deal ten years earlier, would I have pursued my dream instead of interrupting it with the mess of extra babies and disguised blessings?
Looking back, at the time there were strained relationships in my life that needed mending. At the very least, they needed firm boundaries, and I was in no position to make my fake, fluffed up life a public service announcement to the masses. I didn’t really know who I was in the moment, only who I wanted to be. I constantly fought depression and self-doubt.
Since the era of blogging has sort of died out, taken over by social media accounts, I have discovered many of the authors I read at the time were also hiding secrets: crumbling marriages, obsessive disorders, suicidal thoughts, broken families. They somehow avoided certain topics altogether, and I bought what I thought was their honest-to-God truth, unaware of any slights of hand. I read their words and chalked it up to brilliant personal journalism. I ached for the connection and rapport my beloved bloggers had with their readers.
The voice persisted. You still have the right to remain silent.
It wasn’t fleeting. In fact, it stayed like an unwanted visitor on my front door. I was aware it might be Holy Spirit whispers, since it did sound so contrary to the spirit of the world, much like words Jesus would say.
Give to God what is God’s. (Mark 12:17)
It was heavenly wisdom that softly blew and fluttered the curtains of my soul.
I heeded the voice.
It’s only now I have finally come around to appreciating what it meant. Maybe the voice wasn’t trying to hush my ambitions of becoming a writer, but rather a reminder that recognition wasn’t what I ought to be pursuing, that maybe recognition wasn’t all it was chalked up to be. Let another man praise you and not your own lips, the wise proverb says.
Or maybe it was God Himself, the revealer of mysteries telling me to just wait. The Living Vine who hadn’t yet unfurled me as a branch because I was too immature in my convictions. I look back and thank Him for the whispers, not everyone needs to know. Truth be told, I was a fragile little thing. I was conditioning myself to put a positive spin on every minor detail, feeding myself and everyone else a waxed story. One gust of worldly encouragement, one word of praise in my direction could’ve well pushed me over the edge. In the throes of childbearing years and raising difficult kids my ears were perked up, my feet, flighty. I might’ve left my husband to pursue what I esteemed, might’ve lost more than I would’ve gained.
This is so counterintuitive to the culture in which we live. I think that’s why I recognized it as a supernatural voice–it is the opposite of what the world is telling us.
Want to build a following? Increase your influence, raise your voice? You deserve to be heard! Yes, every person has something to say! Find your own truth, live unapologetically! If you hustle, you can have it all.
But there is a price to pay for tweaking our story into a palatable PSA. Our desire to be known can easily morph into obsession to perform or to please. We risk becoming pawns to a world that wants to tame us–to become theirs instead of God’s.
Somewhere, woven deep in our fabric, we are aware of this sound wisdom. In the very beginning, in that hidden place, our Creator stamped His image onto us. He wrote His name on our heel, just like some Toy Story character. We belong to Him. It is a trap from the enemy to pursue other meaningless ends, and deep down, we know it.
