The chill of morning leeches some of my body’s natural heat. A medium flavored black tea blend that tastes like London restores some warmth. I feel it trickle down my throat as I sip it. I should be getting started with the rest of my day. Like the steady drip of a leaking faucet I can hear my day wasting away as I sit here and wonder. Though I enjoy writing by hand, a creeping cramp makes me clumsy. I hate the look of my personal font when my wrist has gone sore. I push my journal away after re-reading the last thoughts I wrote out for God: “I don’t just want to rest in your presence, I want to revel in it.”
Another sip of tea reveals I must have been sitting here longer than I thought. The temperature is supposed to drop today, the thought pops into my head unsolicited. Perhaps my subconscious is connecting unseen dots from a cold beverage to a cold front… to a cold heart. I love God, so shouldn’t this be easy? I imagine other people spending hours with the Lord, their souls reviving like a dry sponge submerged. Swelling up, it inhales water, sucking it into its pores until it literally oozes. I want an oozy sponge-heart.
I’m late for work and I haven’t left my apartment. A rumbling AC unit blows air around me. Seriously? Why does it come on when it’s already cool? I get up to grab a hoodie. It is a hoodie day for sure. Returning to my seat, I curse my brain for distracting me from the task at hand. I want to sit in God’s presence till I don’t feel squirmy anymore. When I go to shoot a text to my supervisor, I remember I turned my phone off for this. So I hold the power button till the familiar *bzzt* warns me I woke it, but will have to wait for it to boot. An eternity passes and my patience wanes. I guess I ought to cut my losses and move on. When my cell finishes all its initialization sequences, a text with tragic news greets me. I feel especially bad for not really knowing how to feel. Death is tragic, but the death of a stranger doesn’t sting they way I think it should. I hate that I cannot change my emotions.
I retreive my notebook and scribble out one last sentence: “Forgive me for not spending more time with you today, and for not feeling overjoyed.” With that, I stand and head for the door.