Sunday, April 29, 2018

How often have I lain beneath rain on a strange roof, thinking of home.

William Faulkner

Home. No matter how much I enjoy time elsewhere, I am always happy—though the word seems inadequate—to return home. Sometimes I imagine what it would be like if we lived in the same small town we grew up in, and our children and grandchildren lived down the road or just a couple of towns over. I wonder what it would be like if the time we spent together was ordinary time.

But that is not my lot, so we arrive home late in the afternoon, full and weary. (Exhausted, really, though I’m not quite sure why.) I throw together a salad and curl up to watch an episode of The Great Pottery Throwdown. Sleep comes early and is deep and sweet.

Now, on a dark and rainy Sunday morning, I ponder the day to come and jot some thoughts in my journal. Church in a few hours and then, perhaps, books and tea as I continue to regain my bearings and ruminate on some thoughts from the road.


I’m a writer, reader, and creative. I thought by now I’d have things figured out, but I keep coming up with more questions. I think that’s okay. I’m here most mornings pondering ordinary things and the thin places where faith intersects.

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