I want to write something meaningful. I want to write something worth reading.
I want to write something real. I want to share what I’m learning, only what am I learning?
And so I type something – and before I get to far I begin to see what I really want is you to think well of me, I want to sound deep, and well read. But without sounding like I’m trying to impress.
Like a journal you leave about - hoping that someone will read it.
At times I am the man who reads a just so he can book so he can quote it later, vs the man who reads a book and is moved by the content therein.
A sentence, a phrase moves him. He reads, and rereads. He thinks. He examines his life and his choices.
I remember being that man. The man who read and was moved.
That man is so busy.
And that saddens him. Beauty not observed is beauty unknown.
To see a sunrise, eat a breakfast, listen to a song, do my chores, to smell the hay – and to miss the beauty in them.
But then I come home – I come home and kick my sodden shoes into a corner. I pour a bowl of corn chex and and listen.
I listen to Jaymay, Palomar, Wayne Grudem, Sea Wolf, Working Poor, and Kris Gruen.
And I fold my laundry, and I write – and I erase, and I think. And I hear that music – not the music that is playing, but the echoes of a greater and grander song, the echoes mixing with a growing, groaning chorus.
And all is good. All is hard. All is grace.
