All I kept thinking today as I should have been thinking other things, as I stood and shook hands and sat and nodded and did all the motions, is this: I want to go home.
I don't know these people. I don't want to know these people. I don't know these songs. I don't want to know these songs. I don't know the rules. I don't want to know the rules. This place is fine, but I want to go home.
Then the crushing next part: I don't have a home anymore.
I've recently started to think about what I want my life to be about. What I am to be about. Here's one part I know for sure: I want to reveal the beauty in things. And I want to tell the truth.
Here's the truth: The thought of what has been lost and of starting over is indescribably painful.
And here's the beauty and the truth: We have a God who can raise the dead.
Those words circle in my mind and my heart and my fingers and my toes and the tips of my ears, and as painful as it is I can't escape the great hope of those words. There is so much grief and loss and unbelievable hurt. And in the midst of it- my bloodied heart learns a new way. Learns to weep and worship in the same beat, in the same motion, in the same song. My home is coming.