Learning to abide.

I haven't written in what feels like ages. Don't get me wrong, I've scribbled. I've taken notes, typed up the occasional paper, prepared lesson plans, and generally just tolerated academia, but I haven't sat down and just written in a long, long time.

Which is a shame.

Because I'm a writer.

I am kind of a slow-processing guy. The wheels, for me, are slow to waken and ponderous to turn. That's not a euphemism for stupidity. I don't think I'm dumb; I'm just a slow thinker. I turn things over in my head, similar to the way one might turn a stone over and over in his hand, so that eventually the edges are worn smooth and shiny.

Another way to think about it is the way a cow might chew cud. Cows have multiple stomachs. When they eat cattle feed, they chew it up, swallow, digest, regurgitate, chew it up, swallow, digest, regurgitate, and so on and so forth until every possible ounce of nutrition is extracted from the cattle feed.

That's right. I just compared my thoughts to cattle vomit.

If you ever have an in-depth conversation with me and speak to me face-to-face you'll notice one of two things. Either I will take a long time to think about what I say to you, or I will try to say it quickly and fall all over myself as my mouth moves at a speed slightly slower as the thoughts that are pouring out my brain. Kind of like a 12-year old boy might trip all over himself and his untied shoelaces on his way up the school steps.

Writing gives me a chance to tie up my shoelaces, take a deep breath, and deliberately step through those figurative double doors. The words come more easily, free of the little pieces of lint that tend to collect in my pockets. The ideas flow more cleanly, free of my softspoken, often monotonous voice that could couldn't cut through the sound of a purring cat.

I think I'm going to write more.

Fight.

For the Father who made you.
For the Son who saved you.
For the Spirit that raised you.

For the faith that sustains you.
For the hope that exhilarates.
For the love that quickens your heart to sing.

For brothers whose hands are weary of battle.
For sisters whose hearts have forgotten their love.
For fathers whose backs are broken to pieces.
For mothers whose wells have forgotten their spring.

Because none are too far on paths untraveled.
Because none are too warmed by the flames of His hearth.
Because there's far more to life than simply survival.
Because there's far more to see than just ten feet of dark.

Because fire burns hotter under the breath of its maker.
Because fingers feel stronger around the hilt of their sword.
Because no man steps bolder than in the steps of his father.

Because no cause shines brighter than the glory of the King.