some of those meandering musings

I am taking a writing class, in which we are doing a series of introspective free-writes. Technically, it is not meant to be public writing. But I’ve never been one to write just for myself. So even though what I wrote today is extremely self-focused, it still belongs “out there,” so far as I’m concerned. Well, some of it. I reserved the right to keep some of it to myself ☺ That said, I am aware that many people I care about do rely on my blog to, in a sense, keep track of my life. That said, I offer up this series of processing ramblings as a way of laying out there the thoughts currently running through my head:

What is in a call? What is in a life? What is my life? I am a woman. I live in Afghanistan. But I am not there.
Home. Is it here, where I currently spend my days? No. I am, for now, a wandering soul, temporarily abiding with my grandparents . . .
I have written recently of a heart that rests in K@bul. Is it my heart that is there, or is it fear that keeps me there? Strange concept, I know, to be afraid to leave a war-torn land. But at the core of my seemingly adventurous being, I know, is a security-seeker. I don’t want to start over. I don’t want to start a job I’m afraid I’ll fail in.
So do I stay in K@bul? . . .
Lord, why do you see fit to challenge me with multiple open doors at once? I, who am so insecure in my own decision-making skills? I, who am accustomed to simply going where someone tells me I should go, to filling a need I am told I should fill? I do not like so many options. More precisely, I do not like disappointing anyone . . .
If the bun fits . . .
What do I mean by a call? Is it significance? Is it integrity?
…
What do I need?
I need days that are full of nurturing activity. But I also need solid chunks of time to myself each day.
I need security. But I do not want a “normal” life of comfort, by Western standards.
I need community. But I do not want a social circle that overextends my introverted self.
I need to know that I am doing good work.
I need to move physically—need to have time, and space, to run, to dance, and to try new athletic endeavors.
I need to sing. Sadness—I have not felt the joy, and thrill, of my music lately. The songs I’ve sung have been dutiful, perfunctory, not exquisite, transporting moments like they have been before.
My heart is cold.
Lord, break my heart.
But first, point me in the right direction for this next move, so I can get the business of it done. The logistics. Then I’ll be ready for that broken heart.
Much obliged.

Later today, after this class, I had a study. We spoke of Peter, and of his denial. I remembered that the other day I heard a sermon in which Peter was mentioned as an inspiration, if only for the fact that someone so, well, un-exceptional, in so many ways, could be called a “rock,” upon which the Church shall be built. Comfort, great comfort, for us all in our foibles, failings, and flailings.