This place has seen little more than silence over the past four months. In a lot of ways, my heart is still trying to find it's bearings after October all but emptied me out. Grief, I'm learning, is no respecter of anyone's schedule. I wish I could say that coming back here felt like coming home, but that wouldn't really be true.
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2016 was a bittersweet year. I heard more of God's voice this year than ever before. I found myself digging through scripture in search of God knows what. 26 years worth of hard questions that well meaning Bible belt Sunday school teachers never taught me how to ask, much less find the answers to.
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When I was growing up, I didn't know anything about the Liturgical Year. We attended a small Pentecostal church with rusty red carpet and green pews and a hefty pastor and my parents were not well versed in the church calendar. I knew about Daniel and the lion's den, Esther becoming queen, the prodigal son, and how one time Jesus made a cocktail of spit and dirt and rubbed it in the eyes of a blind man to give him back his sight.
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