The Correspondent
Each time the calendar rolls over to a new year, I become introspective.
It’s as if I am going into the pantry and surveying what is there, taking inventory—what I have, what’s needed, the state of things.
That’s what I do every January first. So I spent the day thinking yesterday and one thing I decided was that I’m going to write to this woman in Scotland after all.
You know I do believe in an intelligent God with plans and a firm grasp on what is happening down here—and if I’m meant to reach her, I will.
At times it seems like insanity to trust in a thing like that. And yet I do. I must.
How strange my life has become recently.
When Harry arrived in mid-September I’d assumed it would be for a few days or a week, and here we are these months later.
He’s coming back Sunday. Fiona’s worried I’m being used; I am not.
I’ve insisted he stay as long as it’s the best thing for him.
And now there is this Scottish woman with whom I am hoping to connect, one tiny little person out there in a sea of billions who is theoretically my family.
How strange it all feels to me. I’m sitting at the desk this morning, it’s fourteen degrees outside and snowing here and there, I’m all tucked in here with my tea and thinking about how strange it is, and wondering—have I been lonely?
I wouldn’t have ever said that, but now that I sit here thinking, I wonder, was I always lonely?
I’m not sure I’ve ever felt at home in the world, but I’m not sure that’s unique.
I’m not sure. I’m really not sure what I sat down here to say, but it’s like the whole neat thing has had a good shake and, for the first time in a long time, I have no idea what’s around the corner.