I miss writing. I miss the excitement of an idea “just coming to me.”  I miss mulling it over while my hands do a thousand other things, like fill sippy cups or swap laundry into the drier.  I miss the beauty and frustration of the delete button, cutting and adding again to make the words match the message in my mind.  I miss those exhilarating  few moments when the words are pouring out from me to the screen, making sense and flowing in a way that’s surprisingly lovely. I miss pushing past the temptation to end a piece because I’m tired of crafting it, and making it to the satisfaction of finding its true ending.  I miss feeling connected to people whose eyes I’ve never looked into, whose living rooms I’ll probably never sit in, but whose hearts I’ve touched for a moment. I miss feeling like my words matter.  Like my thoughts matter.  Like I matter.
Is this what you’ve wanted me to see, Lord?  Was my writing casting a golden-calf-shaped shadow over my own heart? Any gift I have is f…