Remember the Adventures

Remember the adventures.

The ones that don’t have to be, they just have to feel like it. Like when the cows chased us—or maybe they just could have. Or running away—or maybe just taking a walk. Or buying everything you wanted in the whole mall—because you realize you don’t want a bit of it.

The shadows you mistake for something else. The stolen moments you can’t explain. Writing by candlelight. Let the pen move fast as time crouches down on you, telling you there’ll be no more adventures. Adventures? Yes. Even in the middle of the work week—especially when I am busy. Adventures where I open my eyes and see the beautiful architecture of the city I have lived in all my life.

The sound of rain on a hot tin roof and sizzle as it cools. These adventures are free but they capture your soul at the price of mediocrity—you can never go back—your dissatisfaction will slowly kill you. Adventures are hearing God’s voice or seeing God’s beauty or feeling God’s presence wrap around you finger by finger.

A moment, she cries, I would give you anything for a moment!

Louder, louder, it grows, and my skin cannot stay still. It is beauty, in all of its forms, calling me—and I ache. How have I stayed away—how have I turned away from adventures? The price of the world to save my soul.

Why can’t you paint in shadows and fleeting moments? I would have the perfect picture. Raindrops pour through candlelight. I’ve missed you, lonely part of my soul. I am glad you are here to say hello. The loudly quiet echo has done me good. I carry some of you back to the land of the living. It does them good to see a pale horse.

I’ve sat here long enough. Enough to say “I love you” to anyone, and mean it. To see adventures in every corner, for they come with me.