I’m in a diner. Not a recreation anything, but a real honest to goodness, third generation owned and operated, hole in the wall diner. I’m sitting at the counter watching the cook prepare my omelette and potatoes fresh just for me, noticing the lack of intentional “good old days” vibe around. Most places like this would have tons of photos of days gone by. Not here. It’s easy enough to know how authentic it is by the worn areas of the counter. The word nostalgia is almost tangible in the very air. Naturally, I start to ask myself what it is that I miss. What am I nostalgic for?
It’s then that I begin writing. I miss it. Writing this to you, though there are so few and it’s such a one sided conversation, is more soul cleansing than I realized. The simple act of starting a post is like washing my feet at the end of a summer day before slipping into cool, clean sheets. I want more.
I leave the diner to attack my errands, and I see what I need. But let me back up.
The reason I’m in a strange diner on a weekday morning at all is because I am sick. I came home from work the day before with a fever and the beginnings of a cold. I knew I should take the next day to rest, but just like always happens to adults, suddenly having time on my hands I had so very many things to do. I drove to a town about 40 minutes away to run a handful or errands for my classroom. When I was about ten minutes outside of the town I realized that nothing I needed would be open so early in the morning; it had just made sense to drop Daughter off at school and leave from there. So, diner. The diner is in the old and revitalized part of the town that I’ve never seen before. It’s the super clean, very hip area with little shops trying their best to be cool. It just so happens that it’s also in the area of churches.
I avoid talking about God on this blog, and I often thank and refer to the Universe. Some of that is because I try to be open minded and avoid offense, and some is because religion and I aren’t always besties. When I step out of the diner, though, my church is looking at me and just begging me to come.
As soon as I walk in, my feet echoing despite the cork sandals on them, and I am overcome. This is what I miss, too. I make my way to the front of the church and I pray. On my knees for as long as I physically can, I pray. I apologize for being away for so long and for my lack of grace every single day. I thank God for my life, for Husband and Daughter, for the people I need to be able to connect with. I show my gratitude for my job. I pray. And I cry. I am bawling in this church like a broken child, and I’m not even sure why. I collect myself and light a candle for someone I love and someone she loves. I walk into the sun.
Waking out of the church, I feel cleansed. I pray in my life now. It’s very private so I don’t discuss it and it is something I do just in my home, but praying in God’s house is somehow different. I truly believe in God and the Universe and that I am heard when and wherever I call out, but today is so much better. I feel new.
I walk away thinking of these things I miss. Thinking of writing and praying. Wondering how different they are, and knowing that I can change anything I want. If I miss it, I can practice again. I can write. I can pray. I make a promise to do both for myself more. I decide I’m going to be selfish and indulge.
Here I am. I’m going to be sharing with you a lot more once again. I hope you want to come with me.