Over the weekend my husband asked me in a concerned manner if I had any goals. I pondered for a moment and came up empty handed. His goals entail paying off debt, investing, buying a new guitar without using credit, and other goals that scream 5-year, 10, year, 20 year plans. I tried to explain why my brain was left blank, but all that kept coming out was that I wanted to enjoy the moment. No time for goals. When did I become so hippyish? We live on a beautiful island and I truly believe that God brought us here to relax. To take a pause in life to enjoy Him and soak up all the beauty He created. As I continued to speak I could feel my husband’s discerning eyes knowing all too well that the more I spoke the sooner I’d figure out my main “goal” in life.  He knew already. I continued on this round-about-speech of taking advantage of our free time, enjoying the simple life without cable, and relishing in our daughter’s laughter. I preached how we should make our time useful. Finally, it ended. I ended. Though he may not admit it, my sweet husband knew all along that our conversation would end with me saying, “I’d love to write a book.” I really would. I’ve never thought writing a book could or would be my goal. More so a dream. A dream God placed in my heart no doubt. It seems untouchable. Far out of reach. Goals scare me. I fear failure and a goal is real. I’d prefer to be in dreamland, but unfortunately I let out the “Make use of our island time!” dream speech that will forever haunt me until I do something, or rather write something. This is no doubt a result of my husband’s devious plan. He wins. Here I am. Writing. It’s not a book, but it’s a step in the right direction. If that isn’t enough, I’m going to attempt to make it a habit. I’ll be using a nifty website that gives a one-word writing prompt. Wish me luck.


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