When I went to settle down for the evening, I saw my calendar sitting by my bed. It’s one of those tear-off-a-day things where you get a pretty picture for every day of the year. This one’s a collection of Thomas Kinkade paintings.
The date read May 31/June 1st. It doubles up on weekends.
I haven’t been home–really home–in over a month.
I stood by my bed and peeled off the days, one by one, glancing at the pictures individually before they fluttered to my feet. Many, many days. The thick little block calendar felt a lot lighter when I finished.
In a month’s time, I’ve been to Wisconsin (seven days), back home(three days), then to Croatia (fifteen days), then back home (one day), then to Georgia (the state) (nine days). That has got to be the shortest time at home I have ever spent in one month in the history of my life.
By the end of the week (Lord willing and the creek don’t rise), I’ll be moved into my own place.
I start work tomorrow.
I don’t feel too tired. I don’t feel worn out. Neither am I particularly invigorated by the experience. It feel like it’s been a year since June 1st. Hours and hours of travel, both on the road and in the air. A week of teaching. Hours of performing music. Pages and pages written in the book of my life.
The moving life is what I want. I don’t want to be in one place at all times of the year. I want to be here one day, gone the next. I want to be out there, doing things–spreading the Gospel, writing things, eating in odd places, meeting people, seeing this big, wide, beautiful world. Working hard. Changing lives.
Now that I have traveled, I cannot stop.
And that is that.