Stuck

           

I want to write something inspired for you lovely people, and I’m stuck.

I’m not blocked. I have a whole host of topics I would like to touch on. Integrity, working with the kids, why sometimes people suck; all of these are things that I would like to talk to you about. But every time I sit down to write it out, I’m stuck. I’m bogged down, I’m jammed, I’m wedged in a corner-pick a mental picture.

Do you want to know what I’m stuck on? I’m stuck on black boots. I really want black boots.

I even have a really good reason. You see, black boots would go perfectly with 80% of my wardrobe. They would complement nearly everything I own. And I would be able to walk confidently into the world, well dressed with coordinating, pretty black boots. My life would be perfect.

I don’t care if you’re laughing at me here. This is really how I feel.

Along with my black boots, I’m stuck on how very much I miss the public library (I imagine they miss me too; who’s keeping them in business these days?) and Caribou. I’m stuck on how much it sucked to miss out on cheese curds at the state fair. I’m stuck on a million other little things that just seem to be accumulating in my life, like my innate need to go to Target every other day.

It’s not my intention to have a temper tantrum. I just want you to know what I’m stuck on.

There are a lot of things that I've given up that are pulling at me these days. More than just Target, I miss my freedom. And unlimited internet. And the ability to go where I want, when I want, to do what I want to do. I’m stuck on how much my life has changed in such a short period of time, and I know that there are still more changes to come. It’s uncomfortable.

It’s like any stage of life. You walk out the door of your old life, whistling and smiling, sure that everything is coming up daisies for you as you hear the sound of the lock click behind you. But after reality sets in, you find yourself moving towards that door. At first you just look at it for a while. Then you touch it. You begin knocking gently on the door, just to see if anyone’s there. You knock a little louder. Then a little louder. And pretty soon, you’re banging on the door with all your might, sobbing, begging to be let back in.

This, of course, is just me. I don’t know how sane people react to these situations.

There is no going back. There is never any going back. Yes, I could go back to the states and get a job, buy my boots and move on with my life, but that would be moving forward, not backwards. And while I really want my boots, I also want to serve God.

Even though I don’t have black boots, or the money and time to get them here, I know that I’m slowly getting unstuck. There are things here that are beginning to get a hold of my heart and dig themselves into my soul. Saturday mornings with my girls, and pancakes for breakfast. Cemitas at the fair. Movie night on the third floor. And, in the amazing symmetry of life, someday I will move on to the next segment of my life, and I’ll have to get myself unstuck all over again and stop banging on that door.

Maybe that’s my point, here. Life is change, and if you’re not changing, you’re not living. That door is always going to be there, beckoning to you, whispering how if you just go back, everything will be okay. But you can’t. Because there’s no going back-there’s only the whole world in front of you, waiting for you, and an unquantifiable God asking for your obedience.