On This Sleepy Street

I am sitting in the coziest coffee shop. It helps that the sky is low and gray. The last remaining leaves dance loosely on the branches, some concede defeat and fall to the quiet sidewalk. This is a sleepy city, at least on my side of town it is. Boho-professionals and art professors linger long in these corner cafes.  I'm just one among many here, sipping my soy latte. Mornings like these are few and far between, as I'm usually explaining to Madeleine at this point why she can't watch another Blues Clues. With meetings on the schedule, I planned a morning away, strolled off silently down the quiet streets to this little haven.

Right now I feel a bit like Kathleen Kelly. Yes, in fact, this place fits the description. Except I have no rose, no Pride and Prejudice and I am not waiting for Mr. NY152 to walk through the door. Not this morning at least. I have other sorts of meetings that include words like "design" and stuff.

Last year I came back north around this time, nursing a restless, slightly broken heart. Thanksgiving was my relief in sight and I counted down the days to seeing mountains, feeling cold, playing football with the family.

I drove through Rochester then and I remember thinking, (no lie) "Why would I ever move here? Of all the places to go from Texas, this would probably be the last place I would go."

Flash forward 12 months.

Here I sit, looking over the sleepy city, paying my electric bill for the third month in a row.

The dearest Ashleigh Baker wrote recently and I agreed with her when she said, "I think “this is life” posts are just kinda the best. To read and to write."

So this is a "this is the life". Not 12 months ago. Not even 12 weeks ago. But just today.

:: Tonight I am hosting a small Thanksgiving gathering for our small group of friends. I'm guessing it won't look that much different from our normal routine. Dinner consumed, a few ill-timed conversations that leave us all laughing, the quiet of an evening indoors, dishes washed, puns tossed about, coffee brewed, irish cream poured, a guitar strummed, and the very subtle ease of being with some of my favorite people.

::  I feel like I stepped into a goldmine when I arrived here. No exaggeration, I have met some of the best people ever in this town. And they're not the best because of what they do, or say. I genuinely feel hemmed in and around by them, with them. I begged God when I left Texas, somewhere along the highway between Texarkana and Little Rock, to please not leave me alone. I can handle solitude. I can deal with loneliness. But just being alone...well that is what I feared would happen in this town. That I'd arrive and spend hours, days, weeks on end with no phone calls, faces, touch. I can survive it. However, I admit — I need faces. I crave hugs. I look for eye contact. I listen for the familiar. This quick little community took me in and a very small handful of people have become those I consider the nearest and dearest. That, my friends, is a gift that cannot be measured.

:: The Gospel is at work here in the City. I'm encouraged by it, challenged by it, and excited to see how Grace changes lives (including my own, daily.) It is daily, and God is consistently, diligently and relentlessly in pursuit of everything. He won't let up, and I'm ok with that.

:: My days are full. Beginning to end, full. Between parenting, working, keeping a home, connecting with church and seeing friends, I have little to no spare moments. The luxury of time I had last fall is a dream today. In 2010, when I fully put on the Vegan-cape and ran on streets and treadmills daily for those four months, I had no idea what I had. In that one way, I'm jealous of last year me. But I wouldn't go back. Strange thing, right?

:: Madeleine asks a lot of questions. She's entering the "why" phase and I pray that Grace is abundant. I used to think that when parents let out an exasperated, "Just because", that they were cheating their children. Now, I get it. I GET IT. After the (easily) 200th question of the day, I have run out of creative answers and steam. I cross my fingers and hope that when she asks,

"What do blue lights mean?"

and I answer,

"They mean, be silly."

that she'll be ok with that and not follow it up with,

"Why?"

:: Christmas. I want a fat, tall blue spruce where maybe I even have to saw off the bottom of the trunk just to make it fit. I want to need a ladder to put the star on the top (though, that's not so much a stretch.)

So that's life these days, for now.

Cheers. 

weekends are for waterfalls and whispering in bookstores, mondays are for writing them down.

Last night, I nearly stumbled into bed. I remember uttering the words as I crawled under the white blanket, "Oh my goodness." I wanted to blog and have those sweet movie-like moments where the writer sits up in bed, her hair all twisted in a perfect knot on top of her head, her trendy glasses sliding down her nose. But not me. No. My movie-like moments are in my dreams and to those dreams I slipped quickly and easily. 

A friend from Texas flew into town this weekend and the north welcomed her in fanfare. The leaves dropped slowly down East Ave, red and gold, yellow and blush. We succumbed to guilty pleasures like ravioli with vodka cream sauce and watched more movies than seems probable.

And she happened to be in town for the sort of weekend I'd like to repeat over and over and over again.
Good food. The best sort of people.
Memorable conversations on couches, in cars, at dawn.
Walks in parks, to coffee, in bookstores, around waterfalls.
Laughter split and doubled and loud in passenger seats, in movie theaters, on sidewalks, on the phone.

Winter is dancing her wild way toward us, and we are letting Autumn woo us and draw us in a few more times with her ravishing colors, warm days, and dark evenings.

The Texan in this home says to me today, "I am so glad you are here..." and something in me breathes a sigh of relief. I love that larger-than-life state, and more so, all of you beautiful people who I genuinely, truly love.

But be it God, or whim, or wanderlust, I am here now and I feel at home in this small one-bedroom apartment. Madeleine and I are settling in as I hoped in between these Mary Poppins-esque rooftops and New York neighbors.

I realize that for however long, here is good. However deep our roots should or shouldn't go, the soil will be exactly what we need. I pulled out the old letters from my great-great-aunt and she told of our Irish family, disputed the suggestion that we have any Scottish in us — how "we're Irish, and have been for centuries." But what struck me most was to hear her write of capturing beauty in stories. I read these words and realized I have a heritage of this:

"...I do not know what kind of stories you mean when you say your father told you stories, but I imagine they were like I used to tell my boys. I took the little every day things of life and wove them into a glamorous interesting tale. That afterall is what makes life worth while, to sort out the good and see beauty in every little event."

November captured my heart this weekend and I captured as much of it as I could.

flower city's own flour city bread co. and perfect weathered days.

sweet daughter, autumn leaves.

saturday morning lattes, sticky toddler fingers and bakery visits

ballerina dreams

sunday morning park visits.

fresh bread, old lace, late night music

meg ryan was perfectly young and beautiful in 1989.

a whole city to discover.

My Portion

"Oh, hold on," I said to my sister. She paused in her sentence and I could hear her respond to her children on the other end of the phone. "I just need to take a picture of this quick. The sun, the door..."

"Yes!" she said, knowing that our conversations have permission to be interrupted by pink sunrises and fall wreaths. We are hunters of beauty, she and I, and it's early morning conversations like these that remind us to be diligent. We remind eachother of grace, of the Gospel, of faithfulness and the power of trusting in the Lord. I need to say just a few words to her and she knows all the undercurrent and everything I'm not saying. Sisters are good for that.

This morning it was pink skies, coffee beans, pumpkin smoothie, and her sweet voice to keep me company for 45 minutes. Mornings like these should happen more often and "Isn't the morning the most beautiful?" I say to her. She concurs. Sometimes I look around my home and I'm thankful that I am surrounding myself with things I love. Colored glass. Mason jars. Knit-wrapped candles. There's not a whole lot I can control about life. But I can make this home a place where I find things to be beautiful, greeting me at dawn through windows and on shelves.

William Morris (an artist and writer from the 1800s) said, "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." This is the gift of a homemaker, I believe. And I'm thankful for it.

Yesterday, I did what I don't do often but should do more. My (amazing) babysitter played and rested in my home while I gave myself a night off. No laptop. No to-do list. Just some hours spent on non-kid things.

Like reading more than two pages in a book.
Vanilla soy lattes. (Be still my heart.)
Sitting in a movie theater to see a movie that doesn't have any cartoon characters
or songs about how to brush your teeth.
Having a conversation that rabbit trails and wanders in a city sandwich shop at 10:30 p.m. Some people have a way of catching me when my thoughts are spilling and not consistent, and I feel like it's a stroke of luck, serendipity or grace that this one, across the table from me, only smiles, listens, responds and lets the rabbit trail wander where it wills.
The company of friends I find to be so authentically good, I am caught off guard by it.
Because it's not about the words, or the points we're trying to make. When we can all ask big questions, and discuss it, and land in a place of, "I have no idea..."
...that's when you know you're in good company.

Nights off are good. But these are the days that are given to me. Soggy cereal sitting in bowls for hours. Puzzle pieces underfoot and in laundry baskets. Long work hours, balancing schedules, spinning plates. This is my portion and He has called it good. I don't really understand it, but it's not about me understanding it anyway.

So I say, give to me fields of golden brown and dying reds. Muddy boots and pigtails. Sweet apples and sailors on playground ships. The smell of winter in the air. It's instinctive now — to gather, count, nestle in, light candles.

Give to me late nights with coffee and Abbott and Costello. Friends and laughing, and a home that feels like home. People who sit across tables and listen, and talk, and laugh and give me the space to ramble. Friends who love my daughter without measure.

"Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful." These broken stories, big questions, honest hearts, blocks of silence ... fill my home with them.

shooting straight.

I used to post blogs updating on life all the time. When my family was thousands of miles away, they wanted to know what my kitchen looked like, what my hair looked like, how we spent our hours on on our own.

Now my family is a morning's drive away... but then I have friends back in Texas who now ask the same. I'm grateful for blogs and facebook to keep us connected. But I supposed I should occasionally refrain from cryptic, poetic posts and just shoot straight.

So - are ya listening?

the home office today.

:: I sometimes pinch myself that I somehow get to do what I love from the comforts of my own home. Granted, I have to tell  myself to leave the house, get out and see the world. When working from home, it's so easy to just shut the doors and become a recluse. The problem with that is that I LOVE the outdoors. The leaves, this season, the wind, the smells... it all makes my heart skip a beat. (If you're curious about what my "day job" is, besides being a mom, click here to see my professional site.)

:: I dyed my hair. One of my best friends sent me a note after I did it and asked, "Is this a 'I can't control anything else' hair dye? Or is it just for fun?" I assured her, just for fun. It's growing on me. My mother tells me it makes me look more as I ought to look — Irish and all. She's always trying to get me to be more connected with the Motherland. I suppose red hair helps.

:: It is fall. The Texan in me is searching for my wool socks and digging out my sweaters. The rain feels cold and biting, and while others are strolling the streets with umbrellas, I'm wondering if it's cold enough for things to freeze yet. Lord have mercy on my Fort Worth feet.

:: But at least I get to bake these (pumpkin/cream cheese frosting sins cookies):

:: When I'm not working (with the BEST clients, I tell you. The BEST.) I have a little sweet who likes tea parties, staring out the windows at the birds and all other wonders. She turns three this week? Have I mentioned that yet? That I have an almost-three-year-old? Time flies.

:: We took a short trip to the mountains to visit my sister. That place will always be home. These hills hold so much of my history. Drove through the flood-tattered streets. Nursed a sick babe and drove back to Rochester.

the valley 

:: Otherwise, there is much to be grateful for. I don't know the big picture, but I know that there are plenty of small little reasons during the day to make me stop, smile, breathe deep, and look for hope. Long days lead to late nights, but I am grateful for the richness of it all.

 

Ordinary Friday.

Nothing like have a sick kid to make life seem abundantly ordinary.

Waking, resting, working, eating.
It's all so simple. 

I ran cool cloths across the back of neck, while we chatted and snuggled under a blanket.
She is 104 degrees and I feel singed at her touch.

Outside, birds fly, the sun is bright.
City life goes on, construction tarries on the sidewalk,
and we sat with limbs lazily stretched, watching movies about Christmas and Santa.

Sometimes, my motherhood life feels extra beautiful.
Sweetened with vision, or energy.
Work is flowing and we move about here in song and dance.

But today, it's coffee that is slightly burned.
Breakfast that is less than average and getting soggy in the bowl.
I suppose it's ordinary times like these that make me feel rich.

If this is where we fall back on when times slow and fall under fevers,
then we are two blessed girls, she and i. 
This is a good place to fall back to.

I have just tucked her in for a nap.
Ray Charles wails on my Spotify.
I am blowing some dust off of my to-do list, cracking my knuckles, shrugging off the slow.

The cup of coffee next to me has cooled, and yet I still sip.
I'm drinking of the ordinary,
and knowing that it's not just me
and it's not forever, 
well, it makes it special, I guess.

Funny how even the ordinary is still beauty.

It's Clair De Lune.

It's Clair De Lune.
I don't know how else to explain it to you,
or really how to put it into words.

It's when rain falls sideways outside my open windows.
It washes the railings and the yellow house, cars and autumn trees.
I have a moment to stop
nose pressed to glass
to listen.

It's just as I stir in the morning,
right before it all collects back in.
Right before I remember why I ever worry at all.
Just as one eye opens to the glow on the horizon.

It's the first sip of coffee.

It's the way it spins in this faint blue mug.

Bare feet on chilled hardwood.

Sometimes it feels like this world is just routine.
Just something we have to do,
put up with
endure
suffer through.

I get the e-mails.
The phone calls.
Not a day goes by without a wonder
why He still keeps us here.

And then moments.
Tiny slips in the veil of time
when I wonder
if I've just felt what earth was
supposed to be.

Did I just glimpse
Eden?

Did that apple fall from my fingers,
untouched,
untasted,
back on to the tree for a moment?

The air ripples,
and I feel it.
My heart races with recognition.

"And they heard the sound of the Lord God
walking in the garden in the cool of the day,
and the man and his wife hid themselves from the presence of the Lord God
among the trees of the garden."

It's almost as though, right then, the garden is in my kitchen.
It's the cool of the day
and I could swear
I just heard footsteps.

And instead of hiding,
all I want is to abide.
To be.

For a moment,
I'm relieved. 

With one sip of coffee,
Debussy and the rain.
Footsteps.
Falling close.
Just on the other side of the veil.
Eden.

the good life.

(Today's blog song. Listen along if you'd like)
 

I am so thankful.
For what Texas gave me.
And even to be back here in New York.

It's that song above that made me cry,
on the long road from Texas to New York,
and also made me smile,
and say
"thank you" 
to the friend who made the cd
and to the open road.

This song makes me teary-eyed again this morning,
as I realize God's love,
is complete,
and surrounding,
and the kind that isn't always what I expect,
but always what I need.
Not ever what I deserve,
sometimes not in the way that I hope,
but always faithful. Always to the brim.

Recently, while spending a few days in tents and by campfires,
we pulled the car over,
and made our own trail

through briar
to the edge of a cornfield
to catch the sunset.

Life is beautiful, 
when you're willing to hunt for it. 
It's memorable
when you carve out a place to remember it.

That same night, we stood chilled under the giant sky,
full moon boasting white and blue,
stars slowly sliding toward the tree line.
We searched for the ones we knew best,
and marveled at the vastness.

It's stuff like this that makes me say,
"Of course
You brought me to a city
and placed me with friends
who pull the car over
and trek through woods.
People who stand
with eyes heavenward
under night skies
to look."

The thing is,
there is no corner on the market for good friendships.
For a good life.
For good memories.
It's all what you push through.
What you let go of.
What you hold on to.
It's all just perspective.

It's a lot like
pulling the car over
to walk through some briar
and tree branches
to see a sunset.

Like standing together in a field,
looking at heaven
until someone says,
"Let's go home."

In fact, it's not all that much different at all.

"She kissed them on the nose, each one, then lifted her skirts and winked as she disappeared over the hill."

{What I'm listening to as I write. Listen along if you want the soundtrack.)


"You'll like it here — give it some time," she said over Korean bulgogi and tea. I know it, I say. Because I already am. 

Liking this place has little to do with this place, I'm realizing. It has a whole lot more to do with me. My heart. My thoughts. My willingness to be here and not just live here. Trusting that God has good for us here. Maybe it's the onset of fall, or the impending arrival of winter, but I feel this maternal instinct to make a home, settle in, be present here.

(That's not saying I'm not already daydreaming of the next road trip across North America. Can you say Banff? But that's for the summer. After the spring. After the winter. After the fall.)

For the past week, it has felt like Fall. 

All these northern winds remind me of the big, blue house on the hill. The trees that I meandered to after school, the hillsides where I read all my books in sweatshirts and mittens, the trees that became my secret keepers. I was the melodramatic 11 year old who sprawled in the high-grass fields with books and a loaf of bread with cheese. There I stayed, writing awful funny entertaining poetry (most of which I still have) until it was too cold for my fingers and toes. Mom or Ben would call from the house for dinner and I'd make my way back down the hillside to home. I was always in love with the change. I loved the way the world seemed to dance in one final song — leaves, grass, geese. Summer twirls her skirts as she skips away over the horizon. She is lovely and leaves us sun-kissed and dreamy.

It's always autumn that brings me 'round this trail again. I'm still fascinated by the change.This strange push and pull within my spirit. This beautiful, perfect season that makes me sigh with bliss while simultaneously reminding me that everything is going to die.

Everything beautiful will flourish under the sun, give one final bow toward the heavens and fall listlessly toward the darkening earth.

Yesterday, I sat on a Lake Ontario beach with the three who have become a steady part of my life here.

It's true that (so far) the best community and friendships I have ever experienced happened under Texas skies, on roads that wind from Fort Worth to Denton, to Dallas and back across the triangle, and in living rooms decorated with worn leather and stone crosses. (You'll only really understand that if you've been in any Texas home. Look for the wall of crosses. Almost every house has one.)

But it's also happening here, under a sunset-dusted September sky, hoodies pulled tight, sand under our feet. With people who were still strangers months ago. We sit and watch the sun disappear, the kiteboarders dip and ride, and there is an ease here I never even anticipated.

I feel silent (nothing new these days), grateful for a place to sit, be, and be among. I feel the leaves within my branches falling, and it's bittersweet. (Though more sweet than bitter in those moments.)

Fall is the swan song; the past stepping to the side, allowing death to come in order that something else can break into green in six months. Winter is both a burial and a cocoon. In anticipation, I feel like every day with warmth needs to be squeezed for all its worth.

This year, it feels different. The sting of all the firsts has worn off. They are all behind me now. (If you are wondering if the ache and cavernous space ever goes away, it does. It will. But that's another blog.) This year, I'm not piecing together shards. To be honest, days that used to be important are faint memories. It's weird, to be on the other side of pain. But it always happens, especially when you keep walking. When staring into the face of death, it's hard to believe that anything good can come.  But it does.

I'm thankful for autumn. For His reminders that when something dies and falls away from me, it is not failure nor does it need a funeral. It's just walking forward. When I feel the lurch of time and I gather the things into my arms that seem lost or dead, there is a beauty in this: These things are gone so that new things can grow. Suffering, heartbreak is a part of life, and if you can leave your bleeding heart open, it brings about the most natural space for beauty. Fall reminds me that nothing is permanent except for Him.

I'm thankful for the signs of things breaking off, for the moving forward, for the seasons.
So I'm counting, the things that flourish and those that may be hanging by a thread; the things that give life, the things that are gone and the room for the new.

Counting.. (210-227)
:: earlier sunsets that make home more inviting in the autumn.
:: for forgotten pain.
:: the smell of a campground at dawn.
:: campfires.
:: down blankets.
:: pumpkin spice candles.
:: apple picking.
:: my sister's voice on the other end of the phone.
:: fresh, warm cider donuts.
:: the sound of kids playing in low-hanging pine trees.
:: the lake in september.
:: rooftops out our windows that make me think of Mary Poppins.
:: korean food and a friend to share it with.
:: crazy Asian food market with every spice I could ever desire.
:: good people in my life.
:: the sound of a guitar in my living room late at night
:: the songs that come from someone else's hands, heart, mouth.
:: a beautiful daughter who is changing my world daily.

Linking up:

before noon.

The quiet hours + baking banana cinnamon chip bread for the neighbors.

The working hours + Pippi Longstocking visits our home.

New hairstyle (from a friend's link on Pinterest) is tested out
while a homemade Pumpkin Spice latte is sipped.

 

The play time, art time, drawing time plus the snacks that we eat like crazy 'round here. 'Tis the season.

Sister's birthday is on Friday, so sketching is in due order.

Banana bread is done.

 

Tested hairstyle turns out to be super easy, and just what I wanted. 

Let the afternoon commence.

What did you do before noon today?

monday mornings

This is my Monday morning, post e-mails, schedules made, to-do list written out. It's not even 8:30 and I'm on my second cup. I bolted out of bed this morning, and I'm not sure why.

Maybe it was the weekend. 
Friday — moving me.
Saturday — moving a friend.
My legs feel a bit like jello after going up and down several flights of stairs...many times. Now I want to just go hiking, because when you're done beating your lower body into submission you at least get the reward of a view and a peak. We had the reward of Saranac Root Beer. Almost as good. Nearly. Almost.

Or maybe it was yesterday. Yesterday, I sat by my computer and listened to Emergency Personnel radio scanners as they evacuated people in my hometown area in upstate NY. Streets I knew. Families I love. The school I went to. The waters continued to rise, the dam an ominous silent threat, Hurricane Irene stalling and sitting and pouring.

"Get them out of the valley as fast as you can," I heard. And I waited to hear more — see more — pray more. This morning, I see their photos. I hear their stories. Devastation. Complete devastation. Please pray for the ones I love and all of the residents of Schoharie Valley. 

Maybe it's this morning. This week feels like a ticking time-bomb. I told a friend last night that my work week looked relatively light and slow. A few projects I can wrap up, but mostly quiet. I said, "Maybe I have forgotten something." It's not like I *forgot*. I just didn't realize that the first of September was this week. Note to self: Always check the calendar before proclaiming "It should be an easy week!"

So this is my Monday morning.

Heavy heart,
long to-do list,
two cups of coffee down,
and the cool winds of fall are breezing through my open windows.

And yet, we continue counting (198-209) —
:: clean hardwood floors.
:: hot, homemade bread just out of the oven
:: the early morning light coming through the kitchen curtains.
:: a flowering fuchsia.
:: thrift store bag sales.
:: madeleine's early morning hugs.
:: good friends in a new town.
:: provision.
:: mason jars filled with niece's jam.
:: a chance of luck to have breakfast with a friend who travels at the whim of the wind.
:: the smell of autumn on the wind.
:: late night peace with candles and music.

“Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.” - epicurus

{This blog was written over a couple of days. But for blog-sake, it's all one now.)

It rained not long ago. Probably sometime when I was cutting up zucchini bread or running the bath for Madeleine.  

I know this because the fire escape is still dripping, and the air is noticeably less thick, tired, heavy. Rain came and went and now the trees turn just slightly under the post-thunderhead breeze.  

I find myself fighting for contentment. It seems wrong to want to fight to be content. I keep thinking that contentment isn't something you should have to fight for. It should just be there, showing up at your window, like a rain storm that watered the earth when you weren't paying attention. But then I started counting again, and I remembered that being content has really little to do with what's going on around me, and a lot more with what's going on in me.

That book keeps popping up, and last night it came up in conversation again. The one where we read of people traveling and wonder why we're not doing it ourselves. The one that narrated part of our trip south and back again. He says he picked it up again, only to close it while reading in the middle of a laundromat. There's nothing more frustrating than reading of other's adventures while you're living in the normal and mundane.

I get it though. I've already set it down a few times myself. Tonight, I'm lying down on my still-unfurnished living room floor. Madeleine is asleep, and some Nina Simone quietly belts out from the stereo, and me? I'm reading. Arms stretched above me, the book shadowing my face, I read about these men who took to the road. Their stories. Questions, faith, God, dreams, love, fears, careers, youth. Roads that wind into mountains, beds made of meadow grass and ceilings of stars. I sneak a peek for a star and am met with the reflection of light on glass and a cityscape. My things are newly unpacked and I still just don't quite want to stop, settle and be. 

I will. I do. For now. Even though I can't stop thinking about my airline miles that are stored up, a couple vouchers, and one airline credit worth a flight. The stories, the people, the places, they're everywhere.

Having been both a nomad and a settler, I find there is thrill on both sides. 

Traveling is rich. Traveling is energy, passion, experience.

But to settle, to dig in the tough dirt when it seems useless, to put a stake in the ground and swallow some bittersweet tears…that's a kind of adventure I've known partially, not fully.

I'm not talking about a life that fades into the grey and becomes indistinguishable and unremarkable. Or one that empties itself of all passion and dreams, becoming so mundane that purpose circles the drain with a dying hope. Rather... To invest. To be fully known. Raise a child, show her a home. Open the same door every day to faces, to life, to community. Working hard. Knowing where the local bests are. Finding a world worth discovering within a morning a drive. Climbing hills you've known all along, but never set foot on before. Eating the fruit of local laborers, thanking them face to face. Living the gospel together when we wrestle, seek, grow weary, surrender. I know these things are real. I know they are rich too.

I've learned along the way that contentment is worth having right now. Even if it's not all perfect, or clear. If it's mundane, routine, travel-less. When hearts break, Grace abounds. When dreams die, Love lives. When everything settles into stable dust, Hope anchors deep and keeps the fire kindled.

I'm not hanging up my traveling hat, not in any way. Some day, hopefully sooner than later, I will journey again (even with the little M) to see, smell, touch, taste the world we've been given. But until then, I'm closing this book I've just finished and leaning back to look at the ceiling. One of home.

"I don't think we can really understand how time passes. We can't study it like a river or tame it with a clock. Our devices only mark its coming and going. I dropped an anchor three months back but time didn't slow. Some things have to end, you know. You feel like life is always leading up to something, but it isn't. I mean life is just life. It's all happening right now, and we aren't going to be any more complete a month from now than we are now." —Donald Miller, Through Painted Deserts