Nomad

Two years and a half.
I’ve been running for two years and a half. Wandering between shades and trees, head under the sun like some nomad.
I kept that hand-written story with me, but I started losing the letters to them. How did some of my pages have blurred lines now?
Two years and a half ago was the last time I basked in those dearest promises. The ones spoken through words and a captivating embrace. Do you remember that?  I remember crying, overwhelmed by love as great as this. Resting in arms that finally and suddenly felt so real. I remember that. I haven’t forgotten that.
It’s been so long since I last wrote of that moment. Captured in ink for some permanence. Remembered as this story.
Now I’m staring down at the pages of what we once had.
Things have changed. I’ve changed.
You haven’t though.
 <><><><><><><><>
These pages are older now.
The lands I walked on have grown, rolling out in storms and winters. But the same heartbeat never left. Love would’ve eventually breathed life into that story again, bringing back those faded sentences.
 I sweep off the dust from the words of the past.
For once, I notice the gold lines against the black strokes, framing what I thought was lost.
Opened envelops between these pages stick out like lovely reminders.
You were still the same writer sending me all these little letters and notes.
<><><><><><><><>
Three years.
It’s been three years now, since my pen first captured those tears and laughter. And I finally arrive at the same, old doorstep.
I brought the letters with me. And our story too. You can take a look at it again. Because this time I’m ready for new chapters.
Our memories will remain forever, witnessed by these aging papers.  But as this present unwinds, I want the colors and graceful brushes streaking through all the remaining pages, overwhelming all the blank ones I ignored.
I’ve let the months pass, oblivious to to the cold. You can keep me here. I’m willing to have the restoration. To wake in the warmth I once rested in.
 Please make our story more beautiful than its prologue.
 I guess I just have to read on now.
You reserved more words for me all along.
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This is a short allegory of what coming home feels like. There may have been a time when God’s presence felt near before circumstances made us wander from His love. Even if we’ve wandered, He remains. Even if we’ve forgotten, He still remembers.  Even if we’ve decided to come back late–losing time, losing effort in between–He’s willing to make the story better than the first time we found His heart. He still has a knack for writing second (and third, and fourth….etc.) beginnings that outweigh the first.
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