Yesterday, I decided to buy Ann Voskamp’s book, One Thousand Gifts. This decision was an act of desperation; one spurred by five days of post wedding blues. You know the kind, those uncomfortable times of silence and soul ache that occur after being surrounded by family and friends in a festive atmosphere.
Yesterday, my mother mentioned how much our cousin was enjoying Ann’s book. “Donna said that she reads a few pages and then sets in down and cries.”
Those must be good tears. I hoped. Maybe even tears that wash away loneliness of soul.
So last night, I bought the book at Barnes and Nobles and brought it home.
This morning I finger the soft crème pages and notice how the content comes quickly. No introduction but just an acknowledgement:
“For the Farmer,
who tended and grew my soul.”
The page blurs, even though I haven’t yet read enough to put the book down and cry. I find myself hoping the Farmer will grow my soul, if I embrace this indescribable emptiness and longing I feel inside. I turn the page.
an emptier, fuller life
“Every sin is an attempt to fly from emptiness.”
Simone Weil, Gravity and Grace
The quote stops me from reading further. I decide I must spend a lifetime pondering these words. The lens through which I see those times of separation from my Savior changes color to an iridescent blue, the kind of blue you see when gazing into your reflection in a crisp mountain stream. My heart quickens and my mind swirls.
A couple of days ago, I finished a mixed media piece that today I loathe. The end product agitates me for many reasons. My initial message morphed into how I really felt and I didn’t like it. I began with this: READ THE ENTIRE POST…