The introvert in me burns for solitude. The Christian in me burns for the lost.
A house on a hill. A room with a window. A desk near that window. A typewriter on the desk. Piles of books about the desk.
Look down from the window and you see a garden. Then a long lawn. And a road that winds through the hills. Miles before it reaches civilization.
Morning, noon and night spent reading, writing and wandering. In the evening a novelist pops in for a pint. On the weekend a photographer and a poet crash until Sunday afternoon.
That was my idea of utopia. Bliss fit for an Emily Dickinson, J. D. Salinger or Thomas Pynchon. Bliss fit for a self-absorbed intellectual snob.
Then Jesus wrecked that vision. Not all at once. But over time. [Read more…]