I miss you.
I miss the way you welcome me with your wide open spaces. Miss your invitation to endless possibilities. The way you help uncover unseen lessons lurking in the dusty corners of school pick up, potty training, and spaghetti making.
I miss filling your margins in the spare moments of mine with simple thoughts, mixed-up feelings, or weighty revelations born from walking through the mundane days. I miss unpacking the message my heart is most needing in the comfort of your page.
Hours string into days, days into weeks, and I don’t make time to unravel the web of observations woven by that non-stop thread.
I feel tangled when I’m away this long.
But there are other pages, other places I’ve been filling while you’ve stayed blank.
Grocery lists and dinner menus. T-ball picture forms and Scholastic Book Club orders. Pages of prayers texted to my soul sister in another state. Volumes of childhood comedies and dramas set on the stage of living room forts and back porch chalk murals.
I’ve been filling the audible blank pages of gathering places, offering stories from my life and words from the Word to women’s wondering hearts.
Good pages. Life-giving pages.
Filling in the blanks of little boys’ tummies that never seem to not be hungry.
Asking the Spirit to fill me as I write devotions or emails or workshops, hours poured out and over books and notes and Bible translations.
The daily chores. The daily grind. The daily invitation to be with God. Be more with God.
It’s been a hard, trying, beautiful, to-self-dying kind of month.
It’s been a continuing kind of month. (Continue—that blessed, beautiful, and unexpected word God gave me at the year’s beginning. That call to not conjure up something new, but to keep on keeping on with the things He is already doing.)
So I wouldn’t change them or trade them—these last four weeks of blog post blank pages.
But the missing is deep enough and the ache to meet you, dear reader, here again is strong enough that I can’t stay away much longer.
Because this is also part of my journey to continue.
Continue using words to unwrap the murmurs of my heart. Continue to open a space where you can say if your heart stirs the same way, too. To ask hard questions of myself, of you. To open ourselves up together to the gritty, grace-laced work God is doing in our lives.
That’s all I needed to say today.
Say that I have missed you, blank page.
And I’ll be back soon.
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