I remember feeling stuck. All of my life I have felt stuck.
Stuck in a place that I just don’t belong. It is far beyond this insatiable desire to find my place. It is this overwhelming obsession that I might not have a place. (Heaven is my forever home. But I’m searching for my earthly layover. Not hoping to make my life and store my treasures here, but to fight this need to run run run.)
I feel this overwhelming sense of entrapment. Consider Jonah and his brief three day weekend in the belly of a giant fish. Everything smelled like fish. It was not a wonderful, enriching experience of sushi with wasabi and ginger.
No, this was a dark belly full of fish guts, with an overhanging what if the fish decided to eat him as well.
My current city, I tease and say it is my large fish. The truth is that I love my church community. I love my quirky friends that challenge me and engage me. I absolutely adore these three darling girls filled to the brim with life and energy. I belong here.
But ever since I can remember I have felt stuck. Stuck in this prison of not quite realizing my dreams. Spending sleepless nights (irony) realizing I don’t fully know my dreams. Feeling like I have been pruned and can’t grow to something bigger.
I’m so sick of wanderlust. Every so often a faint whisper that there is something more somewhere else for me.
So I am reacting. I’m telling these voices that they are liars. I’m ignoring the itch to pack up and start over. I’m stating over and over that this is where I’m supposed to be. I’m not surrounded by an all you can eat sushi bar. I am living and I have to stop pretending that being somewhere else will make me feel alive.