I am all soft edges, round. Maybe I’m not sharp enough to run with the writers.
My soul is disabled, deformed. I wonder if I have a disorder. I’m just not wired for the sarcasm.
I have no desire to compete for an edge, but everywhere I look someone draws another right angle.
Is there a place for the hopeful, for the optimist, for the fullness of Christ? Does it always have to be questions and doubt?
I know he is in the hard places, but doesn’t he bring the hope with him?
Listening, we dive further into the deep of God.
“But cynics aren’t surgeons and the sarcastic aren’t specialists and why is it so hard to think joy’s a real medicine? The thing is: The cynics, they can only speak of the dark, of the obvious, and this is not hard. For all it’s supposed sophistication, it’s cynicism that’s simplistic. In a fallen world, how profound is it to see the cracks?
There are raw edges everywhere and we’re shattered and serrated and we’d be fools not to moan and bemoan for a doctor. But the Truth is: we have One.”
We have One.
We’ll fly north this morning and I’m in a good place. Sometimes the silence feels safe and right. Other times, it feels foolish. Today, I carry quiet with me in my heart as I prepare to enter into a time of joyful chatter. I’m thankful to remember His Spirit goes with me.
My oldest girl asks, “Will there be men at this conference?” She knows there will be writers.
“Will Jeff Kinney be there?!”
This is day eleven.