the story

The same story so many times- different but the same. It all begins, innocently enough, in a bathroom stall. And as I prepare to, well, take a seat, things begin to change. The crack between the door and frame begins to widen and then the door is no longer. And as I desperately try to figure out how to escape my predicament the scene transforms into a solitary toilet with me on it. IN A PUBLIC PLACE. And always a busy public place. And always the panic of the trapped.

And there is laughter. And there is shame. And I wake up but I can't escape it. 

Where was the story that wrote this one? A long yesterday ago tale rewritten in modern day English. Nightly showings available on the back of my closed eye lids.    

Laugh away, but it tortures me.

Not far from that story is the real day to day adventure. The quest to accomplish life without shame or fear or doubt. 

In my small sphere, I find comfort. 

The days of mothering and schooling, a gift. My husband speaks love to me- sweet words of life and goodness  I hold them close. The familiar faces of family; kindly and generous. Grateful for friends- I do not seek out companionship but welcome small gatherings with surprised joy. 

I fight to declare purpose. My purpose. God's purpose for my existence on this big round planet. The reason He fills my lungs with breath.  

But what if they laugh? 

Like the servants in the parable of Matthew 25, talents have been entrusted to my care. The end of the story is a reckoning, not of the handling but of the harvest  The currency of gifts- designed to multiply.