I want to write about the road trip.
In fact, I did and it sits in my "unpublished" folder.
But for some reason, right now, it's not the one. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when I'm spinning my wheels on Friday and need some traction, I'll post it and remember that I don't always hate writing.
But a few days of driving, a few days of packing, leaving a state that is no longer home and coming back to a place that is not quite ready leaves me weary and agitated.
Words slip out of my fingers, ideas fall flat and I'm left to another spare bedroom with my daughter when all I want is
I realize it's only a matter of days and this will all change.
And I feel so incredibly selfish and exposed in my western luxuries when I complain that...
the bed is not *my* bed.
The room is not *my* room.
The kitchen is not *my* kitchen.
Haven't you learned anything in all your travels? I ask myself. That life isn't beds and blankets, kitchens and stoves, home decor and throw rugs?
No, apparently I have not learned a thing.
So forgive me as I fill this space with the honest ramblings of a
road weary girl,
and all the other things that probably fall in-between the lines.
Grace feels vague, joy unrooted, thoughts restless.
Sometimes all this longing for a home here makes me just really want to go home, home. To the place that is promised to us weary pilgrims.
Is that why I have such a desire for a home? Because something in me knows that we were originally designed to dwell and be? Eden was made for enjoying and resting, beauty and communion with God and companion. Maybe the desire for a home isn't such a bad thing. Maybe it's just a part of me.
When my time comes, I want to go back to Eden.
And in the meantime, I want that 4th floor apartment with hardwood floors.