Kat and I have been house-hunting, perchance to dream. If you think you're not a dreamer or a hopeless romantic, I challenge you to say the same after you've sought out a place to live and run through the countless naive possibilities in your mind. We saw dusty corners and found each other. We tempered each other's dreams with direction (not necessarily reality, but sort of). I find yet again how much I love that woman. We found a little apartment behind a house and above a garage that is currently designated as a storage area. The house would have been a little more fun, but it was out of our price range. There's not much in our price range, but we'll make it. I have to be a little naive, or else I'll slip dangerously over a chasm of cynical backsliding. I can't wait to graduate. I can't wait to get married. I've known as little about the future these past several months as I've ever cared to know, and I've never been as hopeful and as fearful as I am now. I long for things yet unheard of, and mostly untold. Only one person besides me knows, and that's only because she knows me better than I know myself (I've lost my edge of unpredicability only to gain another edge that I've not yet fully explored).
I went to see Derek Webb this past weekend. I am starting to find myself less limited by the rules that we in the Church often mandate as 'Christian'. I read Timothy Keller's essay on the Church as a missional body. These changes in my world-view are more affecting myself than those around me. I don't know if I'll ever change the world in the church-planting realm, but the mess of life and beauty is starting to intertwine itself into a borderless and peaceable mass in this crazily-ticking heart. I love my Father more and life is certainly beautiful. This entry is very wandering and haphazard - words falling like a pensive drizzle, thoughtful and silently disquieting in a strange and loving way. Sometimes I feel like I don't belong here, sometimes I know I'm right. I am hesitant to speak of myself as saved, but it's not up to me. The world will know by this ring that I wear that I am not for sale. I certainly belong to another. The comfort I find in that is strange and misunderstood. It goes down cold and sometimes slightly bitter. It curdles into a yearning in my gut, swirling in currents and eddies that carry me somewhere like a dead sycamore leaf on the wide and dark Holston. I remember hearing about a boy drowning in its waters, and I wonder if I will not do the same, but as Peter steps out of the boat, so I have jumped into this cold up to my shoulders. It bears me somewhere still in the river-borne mist.