I saw a picture Monday night of a canvas bag that said “E S C A P E” across its clean, (assumably) sturdy fabric. If you’re from the company that made that bag, it looks cool—it does. But something struck me. As hard as so many things can be for us—and as truly terrible—well, rescue is good. But is escape?

Identifying with escape has long been attached to the human spirit. I don’t think it shows that a person is more enlightened or above certain situations (even if they aren’t trying to seem to be). I think that it highlights a longing for that which this world cannot provide. A void that nothing on earth can satisfy. A deep kinship with a great unknown that is steadfastly good.

Even in running from something, running for safety, what we hope for is the close of that motion: safety. Rest.

Many times this year I’ve wanted to escape. But at the core, no. No, I don’t want my leaps and bounds to be spent on new ways to shroud myself in mysterious adventure. I don’t want to ever cultivate more of an appearance of freedom than a hotly refined strength in glory. At 20, I know it’s something I’m going to fight for. So one day I really will reach closer to the woman I want to be, and better yet, the one I can’t imagine my God will bless me in changing me to be. (Spoiler alert: it’s thankfully one a lot more like Him that the pigeon I am now.)

That means, yes, given the situation, I want to stir up honesty and love and questions. I’m not good at it, but this is what I want for my life. I want to be enthralled to be a part of this thing called living whether it’s a boring class or a really unsavory, deeply stripping, awkward situation. There’s so much more to this life than waiting for the next “better” thing, or the next thing we think will heal us.

Am I saying everyone who romanticizes far away places is running from something? Mmm, no. And it’s a pet peeve of mine for writing to include many “I’m not sayings,” because you know, if you have something to say worth writing about, well, say it. But all I can say from the spot I’m at is that for me—a new kindred spirit, a new funny story or an old one that draws a smile of understanding—that’s the jam, and I’m glad about it.

I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. And I hope it’s not just one thing. But I know who I want to be. Or at least mostly. The rest, God knows, and I’m excited for Him to teach me to be her.

Run-on sentence queen out.


Sup pudding cup?

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