Rogue

Packing up old…  creates new memories, or perhaps they are brushed off, relived memories framed with an older mind, a more tender heart and hopefully a more compassionate, reflective soul.

From a shelf falls an old tattered piece of paper.  On the top written the word BABY.   Underneath my schedule.  Little boxes checked for diapering and feeding and reading.  Not for my babies, but for my dolls.  It is as clear to me as my own name.  I wrote this when I was 6-years old.  The paper shows the wear.

At age 6, perhaps at 60, I continue to seek boxes.  Boxes to check.  Boxes to contain.  Boxes where I live and boxes where I find my comfort. Coloring out of the lines is not in my vocabulary, neither is mixing play dough colors or going rogue.

I love control.  I love a plan.  I live for lists. I find purpose in completion.  I am seeing God finds purpose in commitment. Committing to Him is a whole lot like going rogue.

It is living life without the promise of success.  It is invisible return of the intangible reward. It is seeing what is unseen not with the eyes but with the heart. It is seeking what pleases the Father, the acceptance of joy over happiness It is the release of control for the embrace of extraordinary. 

What should gives way to what can be. What has been gives way to redemption.  What comes invites beauty. It is living life not for accomplishment or acknowledgment. 

It is the seeking to find.  To truly see the Father work in the unlikeliest of circumstance.  Suddenly what was perceived as failure reveals peace and what was surely suffering is rimmed in joy.