As I look back on the past six months, I want to fall to my face and say thank you to God for letting me make it here. Back to the basics. Back to my knees. Back to being broken before the only One who can heal.
For awhile there, I tried to make it as far as I could without looking back at Him. And I did a pretty good job, too. The world welcomed me with open arms. Like a circle of new friends who are amazed to find they went so long without your company. There were moments of appreciation for me, the newcomer. “You’re funny! And smart! Wow, you’re witty! And you’ve got great hair!” I was surprised to find the world would like me so much. I thought they’d be more . . . un-lovely. And, oh, the laughter we shared! It was enough to lose myself for a bit. When the moments of beckoning began, that yearning for the old home and its Caretaker, I pushed those moments aside and kept busy.
You can only walk so far, though, before the beckoning begins to cease, and that is when true grieving begins. I know I walked because it hurt too much to stay. I described it to my youngest brother Drew as “going to sleep because I couldn’t bear to stay awake.” But one can only stay asleep for so long.
There is a reason the world enjoys everything fun so much. I believe it is because there is so much hurt it aims to hide; if the world were to stop laughing for even a second, it would crumble from the reality of hopeless grief.
I know this coming home will hurt. It already has. But at least this is a hurt with the promise of hope. There is grace in the basics, and that grace beckons me close. So I’m coming back. Back to the basics. And the basics start with the simple joys.
A slow drive in the car through a heavy rain. A cup of hot coffee with french vanilla creamer. Playing frisbee with my younger brothers. Lying on the hammock. Reading a book. Sitting at the kitchen table with my mom, knowing that I’m no longer hiding. Being home, completely and wholly home.
a scribble of jo 