I'm stealing from Meg Fee.
I'm in the middle of something, but I'm not sure what it is. I know it's growth - and I believe in growth, if nothing else.
I'm not sure exactly what kind, or what will come of it, or how.
Yesterday, in my little church in downtown Long Beach where we meet on fold out chairs in a night club, my pastor - who I hadn't met until afterward, when I asked him for help, tears streaming down my faces, glasses fogged, feeling awkward - and hoping he didn't realize that I rarely ever even come to church - said that anyone who felt like they had let go of one rope and hadn't quite grabbed onto the next should come forward.
I didn't move until the girl in the cute dress with the dimples beside me did. When she got up to move, I knew I could get up to move, as if somehow her bravery had been grafted into my heart.
I took my coffee with me, clutching it, and walked quickly to the front, hid behind some tall guy I didn't know - and closed my eyes so no one would ask me questions. People laid hands on me, silently, and though there were conversations going on all around us, no one said anything to me, and I was thankful.
All I needed to do was admit that I didn't feel okay, that I was one of those letting go of one rope, and not sure what to grab onto next. All I needed was to feel sunshine, coming in between the big thick curtains to my left, and look down at my feet, in sandals I bought in Africa last summer.
It was the admission that I needed help that helped, more than anything else. And I suppose that it was the belief I grabbed onto, in that moment, that God does listen, and He does help those who come - and come honestly.
I hadn't dared to hope that was true for a long, long time.
I plan on making myself french pressed coffee, and believing that hope does, indeed, spring eternal.
Whenever I doubt it, I call home.
It's then that I cannot escape the reality that it does.