Yesterday morning, the sun finally came out of hiding after what felt like 84 years of rainy blur. I volunteer to lead our little church’s peace passing rhythm, sharing what has been growing in me over the last few weeks: the beautiful truth that we who have been marked by Jesus may live freely and without accusation. I remember the story of a son who comes home and a dad who has been waiting for him, and I try to remember that this freedom is for me, too.
I lock my keys in the car—again. I help host a conference and go to yoga and counseling. I battle the fear of missing out and my addiction to glowing screens. I try to be brave. I struggle to receive compliments and to manage my own expectations. I pray—a lot. For an hour and a half over the phone, I try to offer solidarity to a hurting friend. On Tuesday night, I crack a rare joke at house church and laugh a bit too much.
There are questions inviting me to wrestle, nagging decisions, feelings demanding to be felt. I try to sink into myself and love myself, sometimes successfully and sometimes not. My sweet yoga instructor teaches me a new term: abhyasa. She says it means continual, purposeful movement in a singular direction without giving up.
I pray to my own heart, “don’t give up, little one.”
My worship playlist, always.
Season 4 of Lost
From around the world wide web:
What a handful of celebrated writers say about keeping a diary.
Definitely wanting to visit all the spots on this list.
The wisdom and wonder of Siley Martin.
Sent this pearl from Myrna to my pastor and we both had a good laugh.