It's been a while since I have written. I don't propose to know why for certain. My theory? There is a level of anxiety and vulnerability inherent in writing, even if very few people read what you write, that I didn't feel like dealing with. Fact, fiction, fantasy; plumbing the depths of your soul or skimming blithely across the surface the words are yours. Tiny bits of your essence, pieces of your DNA in New Times Roman, Arial- any font- serif or sans, they can leave you feeling naked or puffed out like a proud pigeon. They line up like fledgling birds, some begging to be fed, some bravely taking flight and some needing to be nudged from the nest.
I guess I am being nudged.
Last night I sat on my front porch anticipating a visit from an old friend. I enjoy anticipation when what you're expecting is good. I was enjoying memories thirty years old. I lived in a different state, geographically and spiritually. Sometimes it's good to look back and see that you are not what you once were. Sometimes looking back is sobering. There are times I have looked back and realized that somehow in moving forward I have lost ground.
My sanctification process is going according to God's plan but if you look at my schedule of events, I should be all but glorified by now. I should shimmer and shine. And my words? They should lay bare souls and be a balm that exhorts and heals. They should be winsome, kind and true. Instead, they are stalled out before they have a chance.
I think I am in a weird spot of "sancti-vacation."
Here's to coming home.