I hung up my harp.

“There on the willows we hung our harps…” – Psalm 137 

That’s what happens when you move into a season of exile, far from home.  You hang it up.  The very thing that brings you joy somehow gets sidelined and you find yourself struggling to find your song.  

 

I love writing.  In fact, writing helped me walk through my parents’ last days.  It was an outlet that touched a part of my soul and gave voice to some pretty cagey feelings.  I leaned on words as feelings got more and more snarled up.  It would help loosen log jams that prevented the current of life from flowing freely.  Dislodge emotions that we so strong or so weak that they were caught in my head like a lure tangled in limb hanging over a honey hole.  Words would free up my heart to carry on and carry things that would otherwise be dropped.

 

But writing became a reminder of deep thoughts.  I would sit to write and I didn’t want to go there.  I didn’t want to think too hard.  I didn’t want to be forced to peck the keyboard and string words together.  What flowed freely in the days of my parent’s passing seized up in the aftermath.  It’s been months and I’ve reserved all writing for work.  Emails, texts, messages…correspondence.  That’s the been the bulk of it.  Occasionally I’ll feel the warm friendship of words when I’m penning a creative piece for a message or a word of encouragement for a member of our church or my team, but mostly it’s been cursory. 

 

I’d like to take a stab at beginning again, though.

 

I miss writing.  There are seasons where you take a break from certain things.  I think that’s only natural.  But writing is more than an outlet, it’s an inlet.  It pours something into me while I pour things out of me.  As I exhale I free up space to inhale.  It’s a counselor and a friend.  It’s a salve and a salvation.  I need the early morning routine of connecting with my soul again.  Checking in to see how I’m doing and what’s going on.  Some mornings I won’t have much to say, which is fine.  If I met up with someone every day I wouldn’t expect them to be brimming with fresh happenings.  But even a casual greeting with some small talk can be all you need on certain days. 

 

Writing keeps my mind sharp.  It keeps my heart alert.  It keeps my conscience clean.  It keeps my eyes peeled.  It keeps my dreams off life support.  

 

So it’s a Monday morning in the Summer of 2022.

 

And it’s time to start writing again.

 

See you tomorrow.