A Day in the Life

Well, my friends. Today. Today has been a day. It's weird, not having anyone to talk about it with; I want so much to pour myself out and to be poured into. Instead I have four solid walls and a cold rock floor, a vacant upstairs and a cup of hot chocolate. And you, dear reader. Be my signpost of sanity in my final days before I return to civilization and this new chapter of my life.

Maybe I should recount the day in chapters.

I. Heartthrob
Fresno occupied my day, and I spent it at the side of a wonderful woman named Suzanne. And we're going to plan the ministry of a lifetime. More later. Just know that what I'm dreaming is huge. And it's going to happen because its not everyday you sit in a car with a near stranger and are introduced to a ministry opportunity that makes your heart pound and your blood rush to your ears, not just because it's intimidating--but because He's there, pushing it on your heart and I can't ... I cannot refuse. I have no desire, no ability, to say No to the Call. Here I am. Send me.

II. Americana
In other news for the day, I officially exist inside the government's computers: my fingers have been engraved into the System and now I'd better not rob, cheat, or kill cause they'll have me with the click of a button. Furthermore, the hiring process is nearly complete--a few days' processing time and I can officially begin my semester's project: to rock the hearts of these students for writing. And history. But mostly writing. :)

III. A Pink Felt Onsie
While waiting the arrival of her husband, Suzanne and I milled through children's clothing stores--her daughter has a six-month old. I slipped my fingers in and out of the small sleeves, caressed my thumb through the shoes that were the width of two fingers, watched a girl child tip-toeing among the clothing racks and rubbing her small round cheek against a pink felt onsie ... and sighed. I can't even remember the music they played but I watched Suzanne call her daughter, asking whether the baby would wear a particular color, and trailed my fingers across the front of a buttoned jacket, picturing the clothing filled with the soft curves of innocence.

IV. Drug Busts
Additionally, I participated in a rather sketchy sale of a motorcycle to a lovely Brazilian man who crouched in the back of our car and handed us a wad of cash and breathed the American Dream into my hair. I got a detailed report of the life of a city man of Brazil, down to the fire that burned from his eyes when he described the streets and the affectionate detail of the commute, and, in a thick accent laden with devotion, he whispered, "I will return to my Brazil." A gentle touch of the fist on the chest, his handshake a token of respect and a rush of adventure, and he was gone on a motorcycle and we were left, jaws hanging open, as he made his way back across the States.

V. Mute
Either tomorrow or the next day, I head home. I don't believe I will write for a little while, my friends. My heart is laden with questions, with sorrows, with pain, with hope, but always with Joy--all this I must bring before the Lord, for He alone has the answers and the comfort I crave. Please, friends. Pray for me daily. I pray for you always; and I do not toss that phrase around flippantly. If you would like personal updates, please write to me: kparkinson@westmont.edu. I will more than willingly pursue dialogue with you, dears.

My love for you cannot be contained in a simple adieu, but if words could embrace:

May my spirit wrap around you.