"I think God just.... Pooped on Me?"

This summer I've been working at the church that I typically attended throughout the school year. It wasn't my original plan for this summer. During the year, I had master plans of living abroad, loving those I couldn't verbally communicate with, fighting to make God known where His name was cursed, and then finally lying down to a warrior's rest each night under stars that beamed at my existence. Essentially, I was to be Indiana Jones with a Bible.

Funny how it didn't end up that way. Instead, I find myself in a rather tame situation. I live in a modest house with a basement. I make dinner for one each night. On occasion, I spend time with friends. More often that not, I spend time writing, reading, or watching romantic comedies.

Domesticated in cages framed by bills, flat tires, and unfinished dreams. I'm starting to wonder if I'll ever fear for my life more than saving accounts. If I'll ever find my way to the peak of a mountain, instead of referencing mall directories. If I'll ever carry a child for miles in the night so that she might receive medical attention and know the security in God's sovereignty.

But leave it to elementary kids to bring me back to reality. Last night, I felt loved and needed. I felt like I was being spread over the youth at church. Strawberry jam thinned over dried toast.

Snaggle-toothed snickers. Nodding affirmations. Tightly squeezed embraces. Yes, my God is alive. He's constantly reminding me of that. He is understanding of my fears, convicting in my disbelief, warm when I choose to sleep face-down in the snow. And sometimes, He makes me feel like Dr. Jones, himself.

To the Blog I've Abandoned

I'm sorry that I walked out on you months ago. It certainly wasn't fair to you. And I know we never talked about it.
But, you see, you were killing me.
I'm not ready to die. The thought scares me all too much. You scare me all too much. So, I left you and began hoarding all my poems, thoughts, and emotions to myself.
It was a wonderful time for me; I was free to write anything that I wanted and never had to worry of what you would think or how you would shudder to bear my mismatched words and phrases. I never had to worry about inconveniencing you at absurd hours, disrupting your dreamless rest with my unruly nightmares.
For it was in this new manner that I found life. Behind moleskinned covers, I made collages with my heart: knowing all too well that it was only myself that could ever make left from right in such a blotted mess. And I began to watch that scrapbooked heart of mine beat more and more with every additional stanza. Bread was broken and received with each new page. Wine was poured and consumed with every drop of ink.
Good gracious, blog, I felt loved!

But, as you can see, I've returned. I've returned for no other purpose than that I realized you were right. It's time to let you take this life from me.
Yes, there is a heart and a love thriving within my journal, but its pulse remains there, bound by thread and parchment. I lived in there for months and fostered this great life. However, the question slowly started creeping in. "If I'm growing this heart of mine, then certainly a harvest must be coming. So, who is it that's coming to pull me out of the dirt and rejoice for the fulfillment that I can help to provide?"
I realized I was my own farmer, and I was suddenly swept with despair. How frivolous would it be to uproot myself? Just another unwashed, unmissed, rotting carrot.
It was so clear. I needed a real farmer: someone to whom I can give myself and will tend to me even after the harvest comes.

So here I am blog. It's good to see you again.

(Genesis 2:8)