Little Wren Writes

We made it to Z.

Twenty-six letters. Twenty-six opportunities to dramatically overanalyse the experience of being a human being. (And maybe stretching a few of the letters to be an ’emotion’.)

Somewhat disappointingly, I have not reached complete emotional enlightenment. I still get anxious. I still overthink. I still occasionally need someone to remind me of something I have literally written an entire blog post about. Apparently writing 25 essays about emotions does not exempt you from continuing to have them.

Rude. But here we are. Z.

And after discovering that the English language has been extraordinarily unhelpful in providing emotionally meaningful Z words, I landed on two that I actually really love:

Zest & Zeal.

And somehow, they feel like exactly the right place to finish. Because after writing about fear and grief and hurt and doubt and insecurity and numbness and surrender and exhaustion and all the other complicated bits of being alive, there’s something else I want to say.

Something really simple.

I love life.

Not all of it. Not all the time. But I do. There is still so much about being alive that I absolutely love.

I love cold mornings. The kind where you walk outside and the air immediately wakes you up.

I love snow. An unreasonable amount.

I love tea. Also an unreasonable amount.

I love tiny birds, especially when they hop around looking extremely important despite weighing approximately twelve grams.

I love LEGO. Musicals. Board games. Ridiculously elaborate themed parties. Fairy lights. Flowers. Excellent cake.

I love laughing so hard that no sound comes out anymore. I love sitting around a table with people I adore. I love when someone gives me a nickname or calls me something affectionate and my heart immediately decides: Yes. You may stay.

I love children saying completely unhinged things during Bible time. I love teenagers being ridiculous one minute and asking an unexpectedly profound question the next. I love watching someone understand something about Jesus for the first time.

I love beautiful places. Grand views. Tiny details. The smell of rain. A sunset I wasn’t expecting. The feeling of coming home. I love when somebody I care about walks into a room and something inside me immediately goes:

Yay. You.

There is so much I love.

And I think that’s zest. Not permanent happiness. Not pretending everything is wonderful.

Just an appetite for life. A willingness to notice: this is good.

And perhaps I’ve become more aware of that because I’ve also learned how hard life can be. There was probably a time when I thought loving life meant life needed to be going well.

I’m not sure I believe that anymore because some of the deepest joy I’ve experienced has existed alongside things that were still painful.

I’ve laughed while grieving. I’ve felt deeply loved while feeling deeply sad. I’ve had wonderful days in terrible seasons. I’ve sat around tables laughing with people while still carrying things I desperately wished were different. I’ve looked at something beautiful while my heart was hurting. I’ve discovered that joy and sorrow are apparently quite comfortable sharing a room.

I find that slightly inconvenient. I’d prefer emotions to queue politely and wait their turn.

Grief from 9–10am.
Joy at 10:15am onwards.
Anxiety can make an appointment next Tuesday.

Unfortunately, that’s not how any of this works. Being alive is messier than that.

And maybe that’s one of the biggest things I’ve learned.

Hard doesn’t mean hopeless.

And hard doesn’t necessarily mean bad. A day can be difficult and still contain goodness. A season can hurt and still contain laughter. A heart can grieve and still love. A person can be struggling and still genuinely enjoy being alive.

Those things aren’t contradictions. They’re human. I think sometimes we imagine joy as the reward we receive once everything difficult has been resolved. One day I’ll feel better. Then I’ll enjoy things again. One day this will be fixed. Then I’ll celebrate. One day life will calm down. Then I’ll really live.

But life keeps stubbornly happening now. And I don’t want to miss all of it while waiting for a version with fewer complications.

That doesn’t mean pretending. I don’t want a zest for life that requires me to paint everything yellow and put inspirational quotes over the cracks. Some things are awful. Some days are heavy. Some losses stay losses. Some prayers remain unanswered.Some mornings I wake up excited about the day. Others I would like to formally request that morning return at a more reasonable hour. Some days I have energy and enthusiasm and approximately seventeen ideas before breakfast. Other days the achievement is breakfast.

Both count. Because zest isn’t about performing happiness. It’s about remaining open to goodness. Even when goodness arrives in tiny forms.

A text. A hug. A cup of tea. A joke. A song. A bird. A friend coming over. A moment of peace you weren’t expecting. A prayer that finally has words.

Or sometimes just the fact that today wasn’t as hard as yesterday. That counts too.

And then there’s zeal.

Zeal is a slightly dangerous word for me. Because I am quite capable of turning: I care deeply about this
into: Excellent. I shall now give it every ounce of energy I possess until I collapse into a decorative heap.

Apparently enthusiasm and wisdom are different spiritual gifts. Who knew?

So when I talk about zeal, I don’t mean frantic Christianity. I don’t mean doing more. Serving more. Achieving more. Proving more. Being the most committed person in the room. I don’t think burning myself out for Jesus is particularly impressive to Jesus.

I think zeal is something deeper. What do I want my life to be for?

Paul writes in Romans:
“Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervour, serving the Lord.”

I like that. Because zeal has direction. It’s not simply energy. It’s energy given towards something that matters. And when I think about what I want my life to be about, there are things that rise to the surface pretty quickly.

I want to love Jesus.
I want to know Him more deeply.
I want to love people well.
I want children and teenagers to know that Jesus is good.
I want people who feel forgotten to feel noticed.
I want hurting people to encounter gentleness.
I want my home to be somewhere people feel welcome.
I want to be generous.
I want to keep learning.
I want to write things that help someone else put words around something they couldn’t explain.
I want to laugh loudly.
I want to make things beautiful.
I want to celebrate people.
I want to keep noticing tiny birds. (This is apparently an important theological commitment now.)

I want my life to point towards Jesus.

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And I’m learning that zeal doesn’t always look impressive.
Sometimes zeal looks like standing in front of a crowd talking about Jesus. Sometimes it looks like sitting beside one person who’s crying. Sometimes it’s preparing something carefully. Sometimes it’s cancelling something because I genuinely don’t have capacity. Sometimes it’s saying yes. Sometimes it’s saying no. Sometimes it’s doing the big thing. Sometimes it’s washing dishes after everyone has gone home. Sometimes it’s praying eloquently. Sometimes it’s: Jesus, help.

Sometimes following Jesus looks energetic. Sometimes it looks exhausted. The direction matters more than the speed. I really like that.

Zeal is direction, not speed.

I don’t need to sprint towards Jesus every day. Some days I might. Some days I’ll walk. Some days I’ll limp. Some days I’ll sit beside the road for a while eating snacks. But I still know where I’m going.

Towards Him.

I think Jesus Himself gives me permission to love life.

Sometimes Christians can accidentally make holiness sound incredibly miserable. As though spiritual maturity is measured by how few things you enjoy.

But Jesus went to weddings. He ate with friends. He attended feasts. He welcomed children. He noticed flowers. He talked about birds. He cooked breakfast for His friends. His first miracle involved an alarming quantity of wine at a wedding celebration.

Jesus knew grief. He wept. He suffered. He was rejected. He experienced pain more deeply than I can imagine.

And still, He lived among people. Loved them. Ate with them. Celebrated with them. Jesus is not frightened of joy.

And He says something I keep coming back to:
“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”

Life.

Not necessarily easy life. Not painless life. Not life where everything happens according to plan.

Life with Jesus. Real life. Full life.

Life that can hold grief and gratitude. Fear and courage. Lament and laughter. Tears and ridiculous jokes.

Good Fridays and resurrection Sundays.

Maybe that’s what this whole alphabet has taught me. I started writing because I wanted somewhere to wrestle. Somewhere to put words around things that felt enormous. Somewhere to be honest about what it means to live with a brain and body and heart that don’t always behave how I’d prefer.

And somewhere along the way I realised how many things can be true at once. I can be afraid and brave. I can grieve and be grateful. I can hurt and hope. I can doubt and still depend on God. I can need people and still be growing. I can be unfinished and still be deeply loved. I can wander and still be welcomed. I can be exhausted and still be faithful. I can have hard days and still have a good life.

A really good life.

Not because everything in it is good. But because there is goodness here. So much of it.

And I am thankful. Genuinely, deeply thankful.
For the people who have loved me. For the people who have stayed. For people who have challenged me. For people who have made me laugh. For people who have sat with me when there wasn’t anything to say. For people who have fed me, hugged me, prayed for me, listened to me, driven me places, made me tea, sent messages, given me ridiculous nicknames and reminded me of things I couldn’t remember for myself. For work I care deeply about. For children who make me laugh. For teenagers who let me into their lives. For a home that feels like mine. For adventures. For beautiful places. For stories. For music. For creativity. For the ability to write. For healing that has happened. For healing that is still happening. For prayers God answered exactly how I wanted. For the times He sustained me when the answer wasn’t what I wanted.

For grace. So much grace.

And I’m thankful that my story isn’t finished.

That’s perhaps one of the most exciting things.Like I wrote about yesterday. There are people I haven’t met yet. Places I haven’t been. Things I haven’t learned. Books I haven’t read. Meals I haven’t shared. Children and teenagers I haven’t had the privilege of knowing yet. Things I haven’t written. Prayers I haven’t prayed. Ways God will change me that I can’t imagine. Jokes I haven’t laughed at. Cups of tea I haven’t drunk.

There is still life ahead.

I don’t know exactly what it will contain. If the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that predicting life is not one of my spiritual gifts.

But I want to be here for it.

And there’s another reason those words feel particularly significant today.

I didn’t plan this. I didn’t map out the alphabet and carefully calculate where Z would land. I certainly didn’t decide that the final post should arrive on this particular date. But it has.

A year ago today, I reached a place I never imagined I would. For the first time in my life, I genuinely believed that life wasn’t worth living anymore. I didn’t want another tomorrow. I wanted the pain to stop, and in the strange logic of overwhelming despair, I thought that meant I wanted to leave this life and be with Jesus.

That’s difficult to write. Even a year later. There are parts of that day I still don’t quite know what to do with. And I want to be careful with it, because I don’t want to romanticise that moment or somehow make wanting to die sound spiritual because Jesus was tangled up in the way I thought about it. It wasn’t. I was hurting. Deeply. My world had become so small with pain that I couldn’t imagine there might still be goodness outside what I could see – and there was still so much pain just around the corner that I didn’t know was coming towards me like a runaway freight train…

And yet.

Here I am.

Exactly one year later. Writing the final post in an alphabet about what it means to feel and hurt and hope and love and be human.

Writing about zest. Writing about zeal. Writing about how much I love being alive.

I genuinely didn’t plan that.And maybe I don’t need to make it more profound than it is. But I can’t help noticing it.

And I can’t help being thankful.

The woman who existed a year ago today couldn’t see this day. She couldn’t see the home that would become hers. The laughter still ahead. The cups of tea still to be shared. The people who would keep showing up. The adventures still to come. The tiny ordinary joys. The healing that would happen slowly and imperfectly. The ways God would keep working even when she couldn’t see Him doing it.

She couldn’t see any of it. She could only see the pain directly in front of her.

And I’m so incredibly grateful that her inability to imagine a future did not mean there wasn’t one.

I think that’s something I want to remember because sometimes hope isn’t being able to picture exactly how life will become good again. Sometimes you can’t. Sometimes the horizon really is that dark.

But my inability to see beyond the darkness has never limited God’s ability to see what lies ahead.

And now, a year later, I don’t want to turn this into a neat before-and-after story. It isn’t one.

Everything isn’t magically fixed. Life is still complicated. That wasn’t the first and only time. There are still things I wish were different. There are still hard days. There is still grief. There are still parts of me healing. There are still moments when being human feels considerably more difficult than advertised.

But hard and worth living are not opposites.

That’s something I know today that I couldn’t know then. My life doesn’t have to be painless to be precious. It doesn’t have to be resolved to contain joy. It doesn’t have to look how I once imagined for me to love the life I have. There are people I want to keep loving. There is Jesus I want to keep following. There are children and teenagers I want to keep cheering on. There are places I haven’t been. Words I haven’t written. Friends I haven’t met. Meals I haven’t shared. Prayers I haven’t seen answered. Ordinary Tuesday afternoons I haven’t lived yet.

There is so much I couldn’t see from where I stood a year ago. And there is probably so much I can’t see from where I stand now. So today I am profoundly thankful to be here. Not because being here has always been easy.

But because being here has been worth it.

That’s perhaps the simplest way I can say it.

I want to be here for it.

For the ordinary mornings.
For the celebrations.
For the hard conversations.
For the adventures.
For the friendships.
For the baby cuddles.
For the ministry.
For the cups of tea.
For the inevitable IKEA furniture.
For the grief when it comes.
For the joy when it surprises me.
For the people I love.
For the people I haven’t met yet.
For all the ways God is still shaping me.
For Jesus.

There is still so much worth being here for. So much worth loving. So much worth noticing. So much worth giving myself to.

Twenty-six letters later, I haven’t solved emotions. I haven’t solved grief. Or anxiety. Or relationships. Or suffering. Or myself. Which is disappointing because I feel like 26 blog posts should at least earn me a small certificate.

But maybe solving it was never the point. Maybe the point was noticing. Naming. Being curious. Telling the truth. Laughing occasionally. Bringing all of it before God. And discovering again and again that Jesus is not frightened by any part of my humanity.

He meets me in it.

So I think Zest & Zeal are good words to finish with.

I don’t want suffering to make my world smaller. I don’t want grief to make me afraid of loving. I don’t want fear to stop me trying. I don’t want disappointment to make me cynical. I don’t want exhaustion to convince me there is nothing worth giving myself to. And I don’t want the hardest parts of my story to become the only parts I know how to tell.

I want to stay soft. Curious. Hopeful. Excitable.
Thankful. Occasionally ridiculous. Whimsical.

I want to keep loving people even though love is risky. I want to keep making plans even though plans change. I want to keep celebrating things worth celebrating. I want to keep finding beauty. I want to keep writing. I want to keep laughing. I want to keep showing up.

And more than anything:

I want to keep following Jesus.

Not frantically. Not perfectly. But wholeheartedly.

So that’s it. A to Z.

Twenty-six letters. A whole lot of feelings. An unreasonable number of cups of tea.

And one faithful God through all of it.

Apparently the alphabet didn’t fix me. Rude.

But it did help me notice just how much life God has given me to feel. How deeply I love. How much I have to be thankful for. How much goodness exists alongside the hard. And how much life there still is ahead.

Zest for the life I’ve been given.

Zeal for the One who gave it.

And enormous gratitude that I am still here to live it. A year ago today, I couldn’t imagine this page. Today, I get to write it.

And tomorrow?

I want to be here for that too.

“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.” John 10:10