When morning comes, I wipe the sleep from my eyes with one hand and beat back longing with the other.
Longing has become my constant, unwelcome companion. I can’t escape her.
I fill pages with rows and rows with her whispers and the longing is made real. I write the rows like prayers of confession, always confessing my deep desire for more than what I have.
And my deep desire to have less.
On Saturday, I wake early to sit on the porch awhile. I collect thoughts in the surface of my mind, holding them captive there, trying like heck to call them out for what they are: untruths. It’s a battle for my mind that I know how to win.
But it’s still a battle and on Saturday, I’m weary of the fight.
On Sunday, the Man and I mark time on the same porch and we put voice to the words we hold in our minds. We’re passionate, the two of us, and our words blister the cool air of the morning.
We’re not angry, just on fire from the inside out and the years are catching up to us.
What are we doing here and why are we doing it?
Why is this stretch of our race so hard and why does it cost so much?
On Monday, we chase the big city with the circles of highways and we play music loud enough to get lost in.
The kids banter with one another and eat nabs, dropping crumbs all over the floor of the car and the Man and I say nothing in the front seat.
Road trips make space for talking, but we choose the quiet, all the words having been said on Saturday.
I reach over and touch his arm. He smiles.
The dull ache of longing and the sharp pain of life all converge in that space between us.
And in that space, we commit to keep running,
Right where we are.
A few weeks ago, I began to feel the need to state my purpose here.
I know. Sounds a little weird.
But for some time now, ever since that day I laid on the kitchen floor and gave Jesus every last piece of my jacked up life, things in my life have gotten all kinds of wonky.
And this little patch of internet has been at the root of all my life’s crazy. (Besides the kids and the Man, of course. But they’re a whole other level of crazy.)
I’ve said it before: I’m prone to wander.
Someone sends me a note or gives me a word from the Lord and before I know it, I’ve forgotten what I know I know.
I weigh their words and my actions and I slide into sideways thinking, leaving my racetrack for a seat on the bench with a over-sized bottle of water.
They’re right, I think to myself. What was I thinking coming out here and doing whatever it is we’re doing? I’m not qualified and my kids are getting the short end of the stick.
Or a door I’ve been waiting to have opened, cracks open to invite me in, and for about 10 minutes, I’ve over the moon.
Until fear settles in and my brave runs for cover and I wallow in thoughts of Why, me?
I lose focus and get tired and my feelings rise up to slap me around. I linger in the longing for other things and another life and a better story.
Sometimes I linger in the longing for days on end.
Just like this past weekend.
I tell you this because just a few weeks ago, I wrote a couple of purpose statements.
One for my life and one for this blog.
I wrote them for the days when I’m longing for things other than what is set before me.
I wrote them for when I wish I could write about decorating or recipes or when I wish I could live in suburbia and drive a new Tahoe and lounge out by the pool.
I wrote them for when I forget to wear my blinders and I see what could be or what could have been.
I wrote them so that I can say no to the good things of this life and say yes to the best things.
I wrote them because I need a tangible reminder that I’ve been called out and set apart for greater things than my feelings would have me believe.
And I wrote them because God is good and He is faithful and I trust Him with His plan, even when I don’t understand the mystery He is about in my life and my place.
On Thursday, (or tomorrow, maybe?) I’ll share them with you in hopes that you feel inspired to discover your own purpose.
Because YOU have a purpose, you might just not know it yet.
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