Although I wake up faithfully before my alarm sounds, it’s been a struggle to force myself out of bed. I’m not a morning person (per say), but I used to take pride in having a solid morning routine. I typically got more accomplished by 7 am than those who covet their last few hours of sleep by hitting the snooze button.
My time management discipline had somehow collapsed under the earth’s seasonal rotation and obstructed my to-do-list by shortened days. There was a strict, religious color-coded checklist that kept my hormones balanced and in proper alignment with this time change. (Always a methodical map to my madness--even when presumed ridiculous to some).
I’d wake up every morning and rehearse the same mental spill. I "had" to keep going due to responsibilities, outstanding obligations and to be apart of the productive working class, even though I didn’t feel productive.
My expectations and purpose were unequally yolked. Surely, I wasn’t created to suffer at the hands of my own hardships. Faith and lack clawed at each other in the empty spaces of my cluttered brain that housed all the mental trash.
Rest didn’t come easy, so peace left.
Long-term goals dismantled under umbrellas of anxiousness.
Happiness became estranged by an abrupt affair of sadness.
My unsettled, restlessness had no where safe to land. There wasn’t a safe haven for unclaimed spirits like mine. Although writing was my therapeutic process, I discovered that people are drawn to light and my darkness was repulsive. My overwhelming sadness bought about demotions. This transforming social butterfly had become too heavy for those impaired wings in midair.
"Home" had become an abstract place I’d known with the promise of safety, security and stability. I had somehow ventured outside of my permissive jurisdiction because I was now navigating through the allies of darkness.
There were no rainbows to climb,
no roses to smell,
just evidence of filth, decay and death.
As I peacefully surrendered and closed my eyes in submission to defeat, God reminded me that this is not the ending to my story.
Even though it may sound cliche, "H-O-M-E is where the heart is."
It is not found in gated communities of overflowing material possessions.
It is not found packed in between linear rows of matching mailboxes governed by white picket fences.
It is not found in the hills of desperation or on the mountains of debt that keep you chained to unfulfillment.
"Home" is the place that you feel most alive...
The place that sets your soul on fire.
The place that you experience the most breathtaking view.
The place where you are whole.
The place where you are free.
Upon this place, I will "build" my rock and fly home.
Where does your weary soul go for intimate rest?
To people?
To places?
To things?
"Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.--Matthew 11:28
"Home" is where your peace is found.
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