Hey xanga family...(and beyond),

It's been so long that I've written here.  I've been drawn away by the likes of social circles like Facebook - especially by the fact that in 420 characters or less I can write a sound bite and get a ton of replies.  It's enticing, to say the least.

And yet...

...this is the place where I had done a lot of deep thinking, a place of journalizing, a place to shout out in the night the meanderings of the mind.  Just today, I was reading through an area of "Experiencing God" by Henry & Richard Blackabee & Claude King where they asked if I knew what my "spiritual markers" were in my life - touchstones, or altars built where I experienced God at work in my life.

And I smiled, because I thought of here.  My blog.  A place where an altar cannot be built with 420 characters no matter how hard I try.  I've forsaken the writings of the heart, and that's nobody's fault but mine.  Oh I could write "notes"...and indeed xanga has gotten smart enough to ask "Would you like this to appear on your Facebook account as well?"  Well...sure - why not?

But why is it that I find myself having a hard time writing "notes" there anyway?  I dunno - really.  Maybe because it's hard to let this place go - even if I've ignored it forever.  In some sense, my brain tells me just find one place and consolidate it all.  And I still might do that.  I'm really considering just setting up a blog page on my own personal website and putting it all there. 

But...for whatever reason, I just can't bring myself to do that...yet.

For this place has still been the altar of the heart.  It wasn't that long ago, that I was sobbing on here, so grateful to be moving back to my beloved Missouri.  And this time around, friends - I'm enjoying the delightful midwest fall colors...even if the clouds above seem to never go away - the trees still find time to set themselves afire with golds, reds, oranges in ways that are fierce and delicate all at the same time.   I find myself in wonder, truly delighting and reveling in being HERE. 

Yes, I am a grateful Texan - born and bred ya know - always will be...but I'm also a very grateful Missourian.  And it's funny, ya know.  After all, if you look at my linage - on my mom's side, it's Texan through and through for many generations.  On my dad's side, they're all Missourians.  It's my dad who left to come to Texas to seek his way in the world, met my mom...married...had my sister and I.  I really am half Texan/ half Missourian.  And for some reason, my compass seems to point to it's north star in Missouri for me.  I feel roots here in ways that I cannot explain. 

My children were ALL born here.  One of them is buried underneath the rich farming soil.  Perhaps a part of my heart will always be buried here as well. 

Maybe that's why I've stayed away.  Maybe I feel guilty for still calling myself a grateful texan on this blog, when now I'm a Missourian again.  Maybe I haven't figured out how to blend the two together.  It's not a matter of rewriting a title...it's a matter of truly rewriting the blog's own ip.  Do I just stop here and say that this time is over and leave it here for wanders to read when they are passing through on some blog ring?  Do I start a whole new "grateful missourian" blog to represent the new adventures?  Isn't it silly to give up one's roots because a new passage has begun?

I needed this blog when I moved back to Texas.  I needed it to pour out my heart.  So many changes took place so incredibly quickly when I moved back - that journaling was my sanity.  A way to speak "adult" in a world of stay-at-home-toddlerdom.  A way to view the world through fresh eyes.  A way to grieve the loss of a daughter.  Grieve friendships that moved on  several states away, grieve the aloneness, embrace the newness, find new friendships, rejoice in connections restored, find healing for broken wings, find vision, find purpose, find passion, find revelation, find rejuvenation, find restoration, and revel in the wonder of it all, and smile at peace.

How can I give you up now, xanga?  Do I stay content in a 420 character bit world?  Do I try to reduce God's splendor displayed in my life into sound bytes?  Or do I find renewed courage to write again - create new "spiritual markers" and write in this journal as I journey onward.  I dunno what all the answer is - I will pray and wait for it.  And while I cannot say where I will pick up writing again, one thing is for certain - I will write again.  I have been called to.

...and even if I wasn't...

...I really, really miss it.

Been unpacking more boxes last night and today.  (Yes, I'm slow.  Shoot me.)  Unpacked some of my mom's journals again.  Everytime I do, I can't help but pick one up and start reading somewhere in the middle...very random.

In those journal entries I read, Mom had mentioned how she was praying that my sister Nan and I would become polished, rare gems for Christ, and would share His beauty with others.  Mmmm...

Sometimes, it's so hard to read her words.  Not because I feel like I've disappointed her or anything...or didn't live up to expecations; though that may be true.  No...it's hard to read her words, because I just miss her so.  I love reading her journals, and yet, it's like watching a movie like the "Passion of Christ".  Just like thats not the kind of movie you cuddle up with to watch, I can't read Mom's journals in a way that's light entertainment.  They always hit me somehow...even if it's to say things like, "Started mowing the lawn and almost got done when the handle broke.  Guess I'll take it to such and such place tomorrow to get it fixed.  But Jesus knows and He'll take care of us."  Because somewhere in all the behind the scenes...I know that some days she was facing the delima of getting something broke fixed, or do something more pratical like afford groceries.  Yet, even her journals hardly reflected a woman of panic wringing her hands and saying "Oh God what do I doooooo???"  Every page was filled with both concern and praise intermingled.  You can't separate them out in her writings.

Reading them, I sometimes feel like such a wuss in my faith.

And yet not.

I know if Mom was here, she wouldn't think that at all.  No, she'd smile and thank Jesus that her prayers were answered and two rare gems walk this earth.

Which brings me back to another reason her words are hard to read.  Because she's not hear to witness those events of our "growing up" still.  Maybe we stop growing up physically, as young adults.  But we never stopped growing up on the inside....and I wish Mom could see it.  Reading her words are always hard for me, for they take me back to a place of grief...a grief that goes undetected as long as her journals stay unopened.  And for many days and months they do.  And you'd think I'd know better than to crack one open again.  But I can't explain it.  I search them, looking for some hidden nugget of wisdom or treasure...and each page is pretty much the same of "Praise God, He's taking care of us," or "We're under spiritual attack and we repell that in the Name of Jesus!"

Ahh...Mom.  Ever the positive one in your journals, aren't cha? 

I miss  you...so very much.