Past the breaking point, there is the broken point, where all the striving gives way to an utter stall, an exhalation that echoes in the dark. Saturday night. 9:30. I've paid twenty dollars to be let back into my apartment (in my general distraction, I've left the keys at the office again.) I wither onto the sofa. Bethany vacuumed the livingroom before she left for chapter camp, a brief mercy. A thunderstorm is growling over Arlington, shaking the trees, plunking heavy drops against the windowpane. I want to cry from excess of exhaustion, the way a small child cries, not from any specific motive, but because there seems to be nothing left to do.
But I love the broken point. I do. It is precisely here, at the breach in the wall, that my God slips in to find me, where there is nothing to drown out his red-letter whispers. Oh, joy.
All Clear! - Of all the memories, experiences and things I brought back from Uganda, I have managed not to bring Malaria with me. I was so happy I had to share it with ...
9 years ago