This morning, the neighbor girl stood at the end of her lane like a little soldier, looking toward the eastern sun, waiting for the bus. It is comforting to see children in the neighborhood wait for the bus, their lives of anticipation. 

Later this morning, I greeted the young man who came to pick up some donated furniture.  An exercise bike that got us through some long winters, both in Lewisburg, PA and Wooster, OH.  A spare mattress no longer needed because one of our children has moved out.  A small dresser that belonged to me in middle school; one that we never quite could find a place for in our multiple homes over the years.  

I noticed the other day that reading books with characters that remind you of people in your life is also somehow comforting.  It seems to give some sort of dignity to the experiences and people in our lives - to experience them through the written word.

I suppose that is also why God wanted to write us a book.  I read some Lamentations today; quandary about, "what is God up to anyway?"  Is he punishing us?  Is he loving us?  Why am I miserable and where do I fit into this narrative? 

I used to hold writing at a bit of an arm's length, thinking that too often I was creating ideals in my head through clever words, and resented the dissonance of "real life".  But written words can give honor.  The human brain is at times so unreliable to give a consistent picture of itself and the world.  Words can clarify and lead.