dead air

I have not written on this in a long, long while.
So I thought that maybe today is the day.
I don’t know what I have to say, maybe nothing.

Maybe the page will remain blank and this will be a piece of wasted space.

I should end it right now… because that would be funny to post.

Men.

or are they boys, trying to pretend to be men just long enough to get you hooked.

It's not the destination, it's the journey

Once upon a time there was a girl and a little boy. They were okay. The girl took the child by the hand and she led him through the dark woods, fought off scary monsters, and prepared picnics next to calm streams within meadows, as well as lunches atop grizzly mountains.

The child was unaware of the peril and turmoil raging so near as he was hypnotized by her song and the skip-to-my-lou she danced as she led him by the hand.

The girl had slain the fear each time through the light and hope in her heart. She knew beyond a shadow of doubt that her Heavenly Father held her other hand. Rather, she wasn’t guiding the child, but herself being led and rescued.

Sometimes she would confide loneliness to her Father above. She would tell him about how much she loves her child and how happy it makes her to hold his hand and sing. Though, now and then, she wishes for someone tangible to help her lead him though the dark woods. Someone to help her read the map, because it is written in riddles and there is no promise of a grand destination drawn (other than her Father’s house which is unreachable for the time being).

So, He grants her the relief from her lonely heart. He promises her comfort for the moment. So he sends her friends to visit her on the road from time to time; a friend for wise counsel, and one for comic relief. He sends her a friend whose journey has been more perilous than hers and who needs her more than she needs him. He sends her friends to distract, entertain, support, confide, dream, dance, and intellectualize.

But each friend has his own journey to either trudge or waltz. So while some companions travel with her for long periods, years; and some come in and out quickly, she is happy in their company and sad at their departure.

And as always, the two constants in the girl’s life are the child and her Father.

And the merry-go-round of friends and of dark woods versus calm meadows sometimes spins her around dizzyingly.

Until she drops.

And stops.

And plops down.

To sing to the child, and to rest against the strong chest of her Father, while He strokes her hair; while He sings in her ear; while he gives her refuge for the moment. And her weary legs rest and revive. Her lonely heart heals it’s lonesomeness as it finds its joy in the child’s singing.

She looks up at her Father, looks him square in the eye, and says, “Thank you.”

Then she adds, “When you think I am ready, will you bring me someone who doesn’t dance in, and then dance out? Will you bring me someone who will dance to my song, and love it? Father, will you bring me someone who will take your other hand so we can all journey this together?”

The girl doesn’t always know if she’s going the right way. Sometimes those monsters are scary to fight off all alone. Sometimes her hand gets sweaty and her voice hoarse, and leading the child now and then becomes burdensome.

She conveyed this to her Father, and she trusted Him to follow through because she knows His capacity to love is even greater than hers. She knows He wants her safe and happy.

So she gripped the child’s hand tighter and sang louder because she loves, and she is loved. She continued through the forests, meadows, and monsters with the knowledge that love conquers all and she can always find rest in the song of her Father. She can always lean against His solid stature.

Together, the girl and the child sing. Together, they skip-to-my-lou. Together they love, and together they wait.