I’ve realized my last few posts have had more visual substance than written. I’m mostly in denial that I should be packing up my home and preparing to leave. The next stage of my life is finally here and I’m surprised to find that there’s something I want to hold onto here. This space, these four walls of the Red House, my dear, dear friends here, I am reluctant to leave. But, I suppose it is a good thing for me to leave: as a true vagabond, I should not be attached to the things of this life.
The past few days have whirled and spun about. Honesty really is a powerful thing, and I’m learning to temper my stubbornness with love. Or, trying to.
Why are American/Western Christians so afraid of suffering? I remember the early Christians and the saints of old, and wonder when it was we surrendered to fear. I have spend the past several years in the shelter of my Christian brethren and am about to be thrown out into the world again, and just in the nick of time, too, before the blade becomes too dull to be of use.