Over the last month, it seems the only lullaby I know is the tap of these keys in a word processor. I slip into bed, open up this laptop and start telling the truth; I let the things that are hard to admit feeling and even harder to admit in writing be written anyway. (Mark Twain preferred this method of writing in bed, too - so I think I’m onto something, or maybe just lazy - hard to tell).

Even as I’ve made late night drives home, I’ve found myself recording more memos on my phone, desperate to capture unanticipated moments of clarity – for my sanity and for the reminder that God is not silent. I then run upstairs to my bed, eager to feel the physical rest of my sheets while letting my thoughts color this screen. I’ve had a strange new reel of emotions to process, while also feeling woven within a much larger, mysterious process taking place around and before me.

Ultimately, all of this has actually made me more thankful for the retracted and the unknown. Sure, life’s been a little less comfy – I’ve found myself feeling hurt by stuff I don’t want to feel hurt by and some of the lies I let myself believe in seasons’ past threaten a sequel. And just as I’m tempted to throw a pity party for the answers I don’t have yet,

I remember I’m not entitled to them. And that sometimes no answer is an answer enough. With that realization, I become healthily desperate to be filled by the Most Sufficient. I’m suddenly humbled by forgotten and new graces. I’m able to clear a spot on my passenger’s seat window to see the roadside views are only getting better. But maybe best of all, I’m more vulnerable – giving myself freedom to write from a place deeply rooted in a desire to resonate about this whole human-condition-with-greater-hope thing with others.

So, I write to you. I write you to say thank God for conflict, for our stories that are still being written and for the redemption that finds its way into our epilogues. I hope you’re letting yourself feel the painful stuff, and then taking the time to jot down the moments where God speaks or a window flings open right in front of you, letting in a breeze that allows your weary heart to float – even if just for a minute or two. These are the moments worth holding tight to the chest and tucking away in a file for later reference. Because life will continue to break your heart and throw you ESPN-Top-10 curveballs and dare you not to keep moving forward, and you’ll need that file close by – for reference.

Re: Faithful. He is good, he always has been. And I promise you, dammit, he will be.

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