I’m excited to tell you about a collection of essays, stories, and poetry from the women of Redbud Writers Guild, which releases next week! Each contribution ends with a prayer as well as a writing prompt. My own essay, “The Tamarisk,” is an exploration of the longing for permanence in a rented life. I look at the life of Abraham for how we can “begin seizing the invitation of the in-between places: find solid ground. There is greater permanence than a permanent address . . . The God of Abraham—not the land, not the son—is himself the reward (Gen. 15:1).”
Image courtesy of Joetography
“What would you say if [insert name of major technology company] hired me to lead their insurance brand?”
My reaction to Ryan’s question startles me.
“I don’t know. Where are they headquartered?’
California, of course. And then I’m lost in reverie, wondering how well I’ll fit into California. I plan to lose weight.
What surprises me is that I am not terrified at the thought of moving again, of packing up the house and making life elsewhere, no matter how desperate my desire for home sometimes feels.
Holy desire depends on acts of reconciliation.
To want well, we must first learn to want God.
Which is first to say this: we must be taught to want. We don’t come naturally to holy desire. We don’t roll out of bed and instinctively pick up the will to live in and for and through Christ. No, if you’re like me, your most immediate thought upon waking (after, coffee!) is: I want this day (and ultimately my life) to go my way.
Holy desire has to be formed. And indeed, it is formed in each of us as we ourselves are, through conversion and communion with Christ, re-formed.
Tomorrow morning, we’ll wake up in hotel room.
Can you unpack the magic of Christmas from a suitcase? We’ve no tree, no decorations. Tomorrow morning, I’ll be lucky to find hot coffee in the deserted lobby.
We could’ve spent Christmas at home. But where exactly is that, home?
Toronto, in the house we’ve rented only only six short months?
Elmhurst, in the house we still own but whose furniture we no longer recognize?
At church tonight, two readers retell the story of Mary and Joseph. They’d traveled in the ninth month of Mary’s pregnancy for a census. Their journey, lasting almost a week, threaded them through wilderness, leading them further away from the familiar. From home.