Introducing Dear Vera

A longer-form life is just... different.

I opened a Substack account in December 2022.

We had barely unpacked our belongings in our new home. Despite approaching an Australian summer, the atmosphere was cozy. It was 8 p.m., and there was candlelight. My boy was fast asleep, and my husband was immersed in a show.

I had writing on my mind.

I was (and still am) a baby Christian, having given my life to Christ just 6 months prior, and subsequently watching on as he transformed every aspect of my life right in front of my eyes. Full of zeal and wonder, I would share snippets of my faith walk on social media. At times, it felt trite to do that - it’s such an inflammatory space to share something so scandalous - but it was essential. Those shares were catalysing. I needed to face a baptism by fire by way of public repentance, and praise God, he used that and brought many women in my community into his promise.

I had writing on my mind, but my Substack account remained barren.

I continued to chase the algorithm and conform my thoughts to seven-second snapshots because - shocker! - everyone’s attention spans are shot. I continued to pursue business wins, returning to projects full throttle when my daughter was just eight weeks old. The more I did this, the more the words ran from these fingers that used to dance atop the keyboard so effortlessly.

Lately, I’ve been meditating on the weight of words. Of language and expression.

What a beautiful mystery it is that the word of God is, among other things, our daily bread. His promises, faithfulness, and holiness strengthen and fortify us in our walk with him. It renews and restores us, defends and upholds us, and reminds and convicts us.

My word is not God’s word, but how it starves a languid soul - a human made in God’s creative image - when God gives us our own words to craft, shape and share, and in our insecurity, in our busyness, in our timid brand of rebellion, we allow them to fall to the floor to be swept up another day (if we’re lucky).

For some of us, writing is like food. And instead of eating, we stay busy. And well, with small children, a home to tend, a marriage to grow into, a business to water and maintain, the days are long, but the years are a vapour.

True creative expression takes place on the turf of warfare. "I’m not sure I even know how to write anymore" is a thought planted by the enemy to keep my knuckles stiff and my mouth closed. Thankfully, the Lord doesn’t call us to be perfect but calls us to obey. Nevertheless, it’s challenging to find my once-natural cadence. I stop and start and threaten to throw away another draft. I’m nervous about it all. Or am I excited? Sometimes it's hard to tell.

God warned Lot’s wife: Don’t look back. She couldn’t help herself and was thus turned into a pillar of salt. Here I am, handwriting this entry, flicking salt flakes from my wrists, reminding myself to keep my eyes fixed on Christ, utterly oblivious to what he wants to do here with Dear Vera.

As an elder millennial (peace sign, duck lips) who remembers the golden days before our attention was so savagely pillaged with so much fondness that it hurts, nostalgia is no longer enough. Nostalgia doesn’t feed a hungry soul; it only keeps it lamenting for the feasts of old. And so now, more than two years on, it’s time for some offensive moves in God's perfect timing. Those moves include living a more analog, longer-form life that I will be proud to share with my children and that they can read about when they’re grown.

My grandchildren likely will not find remnants of my legacy hanging out on Instagram (is that grandma doing a makeup tutorial? Awkward), but they may find them in entries like these, love notes written to them, for them, in a time such as now, for a time years down the line.

I have writing on my mind, and I want to live as God calls me.

I have writing on my mind, and I want my kids to see me scribbling, not scrolling.

I have writing on my mind, and I want to re-humanise my life rather than hand over my creative life to ChatGPT.

I have writing on my mind and a lot to get off my chest, so…

… here goes nothing.

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I envision three readers as I write these entries.

The first is most obviously my daughter, Vera. I’ve outlined more of this in my About page.

The second is the woman seeking encouragement and camaraderie as she lives out her days as mother/ teacher/ wife/ homemaker/ daughter of the Most High. I especially have a heart for women who, in their adulthood, have been set free from deception and found solace in Jesus. A revival is happening as God comes to claim his remnant in the new age. These women need havens to retreat to in order to be strengthened, edified and prepared for war.

The third is the voyeur who wants to be on the sidelines at the conversation, observing the themes, bearing witness to the revelation, and inching ever closer to her conclusion of God.

Key themes and life pillars will receive prolific attention here:

• Jesus as the Way, the Truth and the Life

• Mothering joyfully in a post-modern world

• Parenting as the ultimate sanctification

• Classical education and the gift of homeschooling for both mother and child

• Marriage: brutal, beautiful and romanticized

• My big questions for the Father, and his perfect responses

• Walking steadfastly in faith in a culture of self, chaos and collapse

• Poetry as worship

• Becoming a long-form woman, in creativity, daily rhythm and pace, and in our view of eternity

• My continued testimony

Bear with me if you see repetition in specific ideas as I untangle and contend with the ideas forming me. For example, it will take a few entries to clarify my thoughts on Instagram and the artist's future.

So, dear reader, let us begin with all that out of the way, and with these tip-tappity fingers having sufficiently warmed up.

Dear Vera,

I have so much to tell you, sweetheart. I never want to forget all it took for me to become your mother and for you to be in my arms.

Let’s start at the beginning…

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Until next time, dear Reader,

Tara x