The rain drips down outside in pathetic little drops. Not enough to get you wet, but enough to be a nuisance. I know April showers bring May flowers, but these aren’t showers. This is a leaky faucet. There’s just something annoying about it. The gray skies wear on your soul after a while. Standing in front of the window, you push your hands against the cold surface of the glass. You can see the rain dotting the puddles outside.

Somewhere out there, someone is hurting. And there’s nothing I can do. My thoughts turn to them, and my mind echoes prayers for them, but what more can I do? What’s done is done.

Just when you think you don’t understand, it all becomes so clear. There is a time for everything, and the great artisan has worked it all out so perfectly. You may be in choppy waters now–your boat may even have capsized–but the peace will come.

You can walk on water if only you’d try.

I have a rather eccentric art professor that claims the word “can’t” has to be the most offensive word to the ears of our God. “Fuck” must pale in comparison.

“You can do that,” she said with a confidence and assurance that I needed so badly. I looked up and caught her eyes, and my spirits were lifted.

An exchange of glances. Funny how one look can mean so much. What does yours say to the world?

Two figures, walking through the midnight darkness, their shadows strolling side by side. There are no secrets here. Only a picture of God’s love for us. The two walk, for the simple pleasure of being together. Burdens and concerns are shared. Pain is eased. The difficulties of life lessen, and the spirit is soothed. The body is calmed by the cool night air and the starry host above. Life is felt at this moment. Do you feel it? Or are you too busy?

The sun rises early, and I rub my crusty eyes. Another week begins. While stumbling out of bed and into the shower, I’m hardly conscience enough to wonder how the week will go. As the water hits my bare skin and shocks the life back into my sleepy body, I still don’t wonder. My mind has yet to wake up. It’s still on the start up screen, taking it’s time like a Windows machine. Random and scattered thoughts come through, leftovers from the night before. It’s not until I sit down at breakfast that my brain really begins to work. I take in a mouthful of that precious orange juice, and I know that life is good.

So what will this coming week hold? Untold joys, amazing secrets, deafening sorrows? Who knows. But as I look out the window, and see the crisp blue sky, and the reaching branches of the naked trees–I know all is right. Someone is in control, and I can handle anything.

So as I plop down in that first class, and the tiredness begins to come back, and I’m quickly reminded of the pressing assignments, do I slump my head and let sorrow conquer my face? Or do I remember the warm sun and the gentle breeze? Do I remember to stop and breathe? Do I remember that life is precious and worth living? And worth living to the extreme. Enjoying. Few people really live. They let the sorrow conquer them, and they wonder why things are so hard.

No, I don’t do that. I sit there with my stupid smile. I shake the sleepiness off. I laugh at my professor’s jokes. I appreciate his humanity. I thank God for life. I make my day worth living. And so many hours later, when it’s time to let my body tumble into bed and sleep, I’ll have the joy of knowing that this day wasn’t wasted. This day was cherished. Like that tall glass of orange juice, every minute and every hour of this day was savored.

Don’t let anything take that away from you.

“A penny for your thoughts?” she asked.

“A penny for my thoughts? How about a penny for your thoughts?” I asked, “You’ve been the quiet one. I’m always answering the questions, I think it’s about time I asked them for a change.” You’d be pretty surprised at the answers.

Have you ever lived a fairy tale? Something seemed so good, you thought you’d wake up? I’ve found an incredible peace in God’s plan. Just when you don’t understand what he’s doing, and why he’s doing it, it all becomes so incredibly clear. Do you know why we never understand what’s going on? Because God is a writer. He’s a writer of plots. A writer of lives. Who writes plots like the stories of our lives? You don’t understand it because you expect a simple human plot. Predictable. Boring. Average. My God isn’t any of those, and when he writes the story of your life, it’s unique. It’s different. It’s exciting. It’s bold. The expectations are shattered, and you’re left wondering just what on earth is happening. But just relax. It’s not Dean Kootz or John Grisham with the pen in hand, it’s the creator of the universe. And he’s writing something you’ve never seen before. He’s writing your life. So hold on, and stop asking why.

And today in the adventures of Kevin D. Hendricks, dining with famous people and the man who did too much. But I don’t feel like writing about that.

Over apple pie and water, in a crowded little restaurant after midnight, I spilled my heart out on the table. What secrets do you hide in the depths of your psyche? What keeps you awake at night, haunting you? Sometimes I feel so alone. No one knows. No one cares. And no one understands. Sometimes you need to let things spill out.

Masks. What are you hiding behind today? What’s behind your perky smile?

What do you see in me? What do you see in what I do? What do you see in what I say? Do you assume anything by my actions and my unexplained behavior? What do you see in my midnight walk? Do you see a search for explanation? A search for meaning? A chance to let things spill out? Or do you see something more? Do you see something I don’t yet see? Do you see at all? Why don’t you let things take their course, and in due time you will see?

There’s so much I want to say. So much I want you to understand. So many things I have on my heart that I wish I could explain. I wish I could say them. I wish I could take off every mask and every face, stand before you naked as the truth. I just don’t know how to say it. I don’t know if I can say it. I don’t know if I should say it. I don’t know if I want to say it. How can I make you understand the dreams of this wondering heart?

“I guess that’s all I can say,” I fumbled, sheepishly looking up to her wide eyes. She didn’t say anything. She just looked back with wonder, with amazement, with questions. Do I have the answers she’s looking for?