The washing machine is full, which would make sense at the end of a long trip except that so are both my suitcases.
My heart is full because I'm back in the place of green, where the sun has to go deep and crafty if it's to find a way through all those emerald boughs. Where it succeeds, bright speckles dot the lawn. Where it fails, dark shadows invite and tease. I'm sorely tempted to leave this leather office chair, descend the man-made steps inside and the God-made steps at the edge of my patio, and explore those living, green caverns.
It's good to be home.
But my head is full too. Flashes from the whirlwind intercept my normal, about-the-house wanderings. I lift the faucet to fill the tea kettle and I'm outside the sanctuary in Murrieta, staring at the burbling waters of a pool-filling fountain. I unsnap my briefcase and the moment my hand touches my recorder, I'm in the homes and offices and backyards of all my interviewees, listening to their love stories. I catch sight of Mittens racing herself across the patio, and I'm defying gravity and common sense along the Ortega Highway on the back of a friend's Harley, watching the blur of Scotch bloom at 90 miles an hour--and loving the sound of my freedom.
I hear music and see the morning star and remember laughter. I see the faces I came to appreciate and to love, and I find yet again that I long for heaven--where all is hello, and good-bye isn't worth a memory.
I've stories to tell. Some might find their way here. Most will find their way into my book. But every one has changed me in some way. I've been reminded once again of the vastness of God and the beauty of His sovereignty, the transforming touch of Jesus, and the sacred romance that whispers our name on every breeze.
Today I'm listening.