Every weekend for Sabbath School, our custom is to go around the room give summaries of our weeks. This time, for some reason, quite a few people didn’t seem to remember what they did that week, or there was nothing remarkable to report. I was one of them. Call me narcissistic (I prefer intuitive), but once in awhile I’ll say something that sticks with me.
“Wow, we all lead really unfulfilled lives.”
Tonight as I’m preparing for bed, I’ve started reading a book about Kirsten Wolcott, the student missionary who was murdered in Yap. This is difficult for me to read for multiple reasons, but it has definitely got me thinking about meaning. Our weeks, our days, our seconds should not go unnoticed, especially by ourselves. There is a higher purpose to our lives, and the more we ignore that or shrug it off the fewer stories we’ll have to tell. The fewer songs we’ll have to sing. Her life had meaning because she created the stories, and sang the most important song of all, the song of her life.
So I thought if I can pour my soul out once in awhile, even in such a public place, maybe I can start to tell my own stories. This blog will definitely not always be serious. There will hopefully be stories, and art, and music, uncountable bad puns, and probably even a few technological asides, but my greatest hope is that I can accurately reflect my character, and start to piece together where that fits in the human puzzle.
If you’d like to be a part of my story, read on.
