"for the longest way round is the shortest way home"
sitting on the tiled floor of a Haitian missionary's home, huddled in a circle around two lights, flickering in and out like a troubled mind trying to fall asleep. a rocking chair with broken arms and a stray nail needlessly hammered down by a hydroflask to no avail, a fan on each side of the room rotating to bring air but you wish that it would break its gears and stay fixed on your sweaty head.
He says, "how long will you crave Spiritual milk?"
so I decided, this is the foundation you will build upon. no more breaking down, no more lock in ugly tears. no more resets. you're done being a kid, time to grow up.
so on this foundation I built a home. the experiences made a frame. the convictions the windows. my joys as paintings on the wall. my fears and guilt as the lock on the door.
but one room, for myself.
I sought growth for the sake of growing up, not because I was ready. because I was tired of people looking down on me, sick of people wondering why I wasn't the man they expected me to be. why I wasn't the Christian they expected to me to be.
you are not a grown up because of how much of life you are able to carry, but maybe it's how much of life you can strip back.
I promise you God what I have done has been out of love for your people and for you, but the trophies sit toppled over in rust. let them blow away, what is the worth of holding on to them?
"people need to be reminded more often than they need to be instructed"
there is no shame in starting over. if there is, I don't care anymore.
give me a hammer so I can tear down this heart myself. from the roof to the foundation, there is nothing of this old house I hold on to anymore.
starting over.
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