My soul is aching. And I cannot tell you why, but an author that I respect very much speaks of how important is that you write something, and that you write from the voice inside you. I interpret the voice inside me as being the words that come when I am near tears from the effort of keeping the voice inside me in check. This is where I am today. This is what the voice is at this moment.
So I write. I have no idea what I’m writing, but I write anyway. I write , and I give myself permission today to write from the voice inside me.
There have just been so many stray thoughts and words and inarticulate phrases running around inside my chest lately. Thoughts that range from peace to chaos and everywhere in between.
I want to do something that has meaning in the most soul-stirring way. And I fear that my life is just not that right now, on so many levels. I want to live on purpose, be unthinkably generous, act like what I do matters, try to actually be like Jesus instead of just talking about Him. And I am sitting here on the couch watching the umpteenth hour of television that I’ve watched in the past two weeks, and I’m pissed off about it.
I feel as though I’ve fallen into this pattern of what we call normal, and it is everything but who and where I want to be. I feel like up until two weeks ago, I was living a life that was safe and made sense, and now I’m not. And it is messing with my head in some really big ways, and that’s good. But to be honest, I feel a little crazy. I feel like I’m on this pendulum that swings back and forth between desiring with everything in me to get back on the train to the American dream, and wanting to do everything but that. Wanting to do insane things like give away my car to my friends who are doing medical mission work in Haiti this summer and don’t have a vehicle over there for emergency transports. Things like quit teaching and become a bartender in the inner city and spend my days living life with people like my dear old friend Lee, who openly confesses that the only person he ever really listens to about anything is the guy who pours his booze. Things like live in a house without a television. Things like write my story, unafraid of what people will think about it, or how they’ll interpret it, or whether they’ll tell me I’m not living like Jesus at all.
Sometimes I feel as though I might be legitimately going crazy. Or maybe I’m just figuring out that maybe all the things that make sense aren’t the things that make a life. Or the things that make me more like the guy I’m claiming to be like.