“Welcome home,” whispered my pastor this morning as he placed a wafer in my palm. I felt tears well up in my eyes. It was what I needed to hear.
The church I attend is quite literally my sanctuary. It is a Lutheran church. I grew up in an Episcopal church, and will probably never call myself a Lutheran. The liturgies are similar, but I notice the small differences every Sunday. I have been attending my current church for 10 years.
It’s been months since I have been able to attend church regularly, probably the same amount of time since I’ve written anything for this blog. I’ve missed it. I’ve missed you, whoever and however you are. The page is my sanctuary, too. Whenever I stray, I end up paying dearly for those lapses.
The last few months have been a whirlwind; that accounts in part for my silence. Only a small part, though. Honestly, it’s the fact that this blog has been connected to my Twitter account that got me tongue tied.
I am a writer who writes about myself. It’s scary sometimes, but I thrive on the fear, like a climber who can’t resist a steep mountain. I experience vitality through the risks I take in my writing. I don’t feel I have succeeded until I unearth the hard thing, and then say it (hopefully beautifully). Every time I give a reading or a talk, I feel that fear and know that I must take the risk. It’s a free fall. But what’s the point of playing it safe?
But Twitter. Maybe it’s just that I don’t know how to use it properly. Whatever the reason, from here on out, I ask you to meet me here, halfway, in this space. Bring yourself and I’ll give you what I’ve got, twice a month, pinky promise.