About a year ago I wrote this post. I don’t remember very much about that particular day. It was probably a beautiful autumn afternoon, as late October generally lends itself to this kind of thing. And I was probably seeking solace and some kind of tangible peace, as this is usually what brings me to a keyboard to tap out feelings, feelings, feelings. Maybe Marlo was curled up at my feet or maybe I was sitting, knees-up, to my small desk. It probably had been a long Thursday. They are, after all, the burdened days that precede the glorious Fridays.

But here is what I do remember: I remember feeling heavy, yet expectant. I remember allowing tears to fall knowing that they were carving a path of some kind of significant change. I remember a homesickness that began in my belly and manifested in my heart- an ache for the shifting days that I felt sure were just within reach. I recall a kind of tingling in my bones, an anticipation of a life that I so desperately wanted to wrap myself in.

And so I did.

Fast forward to a week ago, where I stood among a crowd of (mostly) strangers, staring at a stage filled with instruments and voices that came together to sing this song from this post. The crowd recognized it instantly and within seconds, the entire venue was humming and then singing and then swaying, and all of the sudden I remembered. I remembered the long drives, windows down, the music riding the wind. I remembered the homesickness and my frustrations and my desire for something I couldn’t define. I remembered this anthem that I had so connected with, that I had sung aloud to the trees that passed my by. And, for just a moment, I held my breath and listened.

I’m still expectant. And some days I still ache for my place and my space I’ve yet to encounter. But I’m also so thankful. I’m thankful for change and for the possibility of turning the new into the old. I’m grateful for a new map to navigate, full of rivers and roads that lead to kind hearts and kind faces.  New seasons and souls and songs, amen.