My dreams are so big and beautiful that they scare me. I know that people can always be more and better and deeper and more joyful than they are. I cook to relax and think. I like the Red Sox a little.
I lived in my car this summer and traveled across this country to be consumed in the beautiful of Him. I was alone. I ate cold, canned ravioli and more canned beans than I ever dreamed possible. I went without a lot of things, and baths were rare. I slept on the ground, in the dirt, on park benches, in abandoned parking lots, on top of mountains, in the rain, with more animals than humans around me and never doubted whose hand was on me. Over 6500 miles were worn onto my tires; I saw few familiar faces and heard even fewer familiar voices; my days held sights and sounds and smells that were new to me.
But I always felt at home.
I drove a giant circle that brought me back to where I call home; to the place my family of friends lives; to the place I know more intimately than any place I ever saw this summer.
And being back, I feel more isolated than ever. This does not feel like home. A job and a home do not feel like freedom. The things I have surrounding me do not feel like living. The few changes of clothes in my pack and the tent I used as shelter were more freedom than all the open land in Mississippi could ever make me feel. I feel trapped by the things we have created in our minds to be what matters in life.
O God, lead me back to the wilderness! There is a song that is sung that I long to crawl inside and listen to as its repeating waves wash me to sleep in a sea of all consuming You.
