Taking pictures has been easier than writing words lately. I'm not sure how to talk about leaving the evangelical world we know, or how to talk about the way anglicanism feels like a strange, beautiful, remembered country. I don't know how to tell you about the visiting priest at Christmas who openly denied the deity of Jesus Christ and then proceeded to officiate the most moving and true liturgy I could imagine. I don't know how to tell you about how my heart broke over the conflict of that and how I came home so firmly sure that Jesus, Jesus is all that matters. I don't know how to talk about the way I am moved to pray and pray and pray for a good shepherd for our little church and beg God not to leave us behind.
I don't know how to say what it feels like to watch your son learn to love a woman. Or to know that he'll never sleep in the old bedroom again. Or to tell you how wide the joy is or how sharp the tiny stabs of grief at childhood's ending. I want to whisper that the prodigal boy is doing so well, and maybe things are going to change? and then I think, maybe they won't though...and so I don't know what to say about that at all.
So I focus on the way the light comes through the window, find the glory of a winter's view or the smell of beeswax on old wood and give thanks, keep praying, go on.