I have cried these past few days. Tears which oughtn’t be cried, and ones which only reflect so much clearer in the faithless puddle of my soul. It’s not that I’m individual and/or the one only one whom is confronted with the things that test us and make us grow, it’s just that I’m finding my faith, or lack therefore of, is being put to the test and failing miserably. And that hurts my pride.

Pride is the only thing, really, that keeps me from growth in grace.

Realizing my greatest weaknesses and hardest falls are centric on pride is a startling wake up call to the block which causes me to stumble more often then is thought norm for a Christian. I compare my growth to those around me and only see them as far ahead as the hare and me straggling behind at the pace of the turtle; and sometimes even more oblivious. The thing which I know is supposed to be the mark of true salvation, a recognition of guilt, a need for a savior, and realization of grace is the very thing which holds me back more often than not.

I’m being honest here. Blatantly so. Surprised? You shouldn’t be.

So I’ve cried. Mostly from feeling sorry, whether for myself or for situations beyond my meager control [oxymoron], I’ve wallowed in pain, wishing desperately for some sort of release and finding no joy in anything unless I force myself. Heart. Soul. Mind. Strength. It’s taking strength.

And I’m still so happy. So happy. So content, knowing that my growth is contingent on my relationship with Christ, not the way I feel about Him, but my direct relationship as a daughter to Him. Which means I grow. I grow on purpose or I grow by default. The fact is, I grow.

Still missing people desperately. I know you think that’s funny. That I, introvert and anti-social butterfly, miss people so much that when Friday comes along I will be the first one up at 5.30 am to leave for Baltimore where I will see one of said person I miss. But I do. I cannot and will not complain about our team. We are having a blast and have a million and five stories and fun times which include vegans, ugly people, “dashboard confessions,” loud music, rebukes and Fredrick Church’s home. It’s been fun and I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Really. But do you know the feeling, the familiarity that accompanies comfortable silence? The reminder that words will never amount to anything more than just that, words. I miss that.

I think I just miss normality. Should I get used to this?

The people we are staying with, who are absolute dears, own a black lab who has fallen in love with me. At least somebody has.

I just wish he wasn’t so hairy. Maybe then I could get over the fact that I hate dogs.

I have not reconsidered AT ALL my ‘no cell phone’ rant. In fact, I find that the only thing they could possibly have any future with me could perhaps be Brick Attack, but this is stretching it.