this morning i sat on my front porch eating slightly burnt blueberry muffins, breathing the strangely warm fall air, reading through painted deserts by donald miller. i've been saving that one--the way i saved the sixth of jane austen's novels, not wanting to finish off an author. how interesting that there is a joy in leaving something unread, in hoping that you'll crack it at just the right time. this morning, miller's author's note caused my eyes to mist as i gazed blearily off into the distance, listening to the children playing across the street and wondering where the story of my life is going.
i know i got weepy because his preface is about leaving--a segment that was included in our youthworks devotional book this summer, over which i sobbed and i journaled, thoughts which i accepted and i rejected all at once. but the preface is also about dying, it's about living, and writing and reading the story of your life. this summer, i was in a place of transition, coming and leaving several times from several places in the course of a few months. now i'm not in a position to be leaving anywhere for awhile, and i'm happy about that, i'm happy about being here. but i do want to make sure i'm living, before i end up with the thickest part of my book in my left hand, as miller puts it, about to close it for good.
deep thoughts, and i'm not really sure where to go with them. miller said he started pondering death once he hit 30. maybe i am six years too early, or maybe it's this being in grad school business, but i feel like the time is upon me to start living intentionally, more so.
donald miller is the kind of writer that makes me want to write. to sit and ponder a phrase until it perfectly (and wittily) captures some truth about the world as you see it. doesn't that sound better than trying to write for the way some professor sees the world? maybe. i think there's an art in both.
i don't really have much else to say. i just felt compelled to write something, after reading that.
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