It is Monday morning. Again. Here’s another week scattered with daily duties pushing and shoving their demands into my small leather organizer. I press to wiggle free from the minutia to segway far right onto an exit where I might gain a glimpse of a more perfect freedom. What is pure and lovely delight other than the utilities of natural senses where I experience completeness…brevity…fragile…strong…empty…overflowing?

I want to sing. To allow my voice to dig out notes so piercingly high it blows my car roof within centimeters of Washington, D.C. while I cackle without regard for the curious glances from neighboring drivers. They’ll rest blessed with another interesting topic at their family dinner table. “You’ll never believe what I saw today…”

I want to see. The Strawberry Festival crowded with a plethora of persons crammed into jeans long since outgrown, then to saunter among them as if mine fit with an inch to grow, while allowing my hair to become one with the wind and to really not care if it settles back into its proper place. The last thing I’ll do is jump onto one of those rides I fear and allow myself to fall…fall…fall.

I want to smell. Robert’s lingering early morning cologne as he wraps his arms around my soul, my waist, my mind, reminding me nothing is as important as this moment.

I want to feel. Those exhales while sliding on warm and silly slippers after a day of tired burning feet, as I sip a glass of chilled apple cider bubbling up my nose. Afterward, to crunch hot hushpuppies between my teeth, tasting their buttermilk cornmeal, oniony flavor as they slide down my throat. They are worth every calorie.

I want to hear. My Lord’s love as we traipse together through the cool and damp tree lined pathway up close to the lake—His gentle, slow, and simple instructions sway my soul into submission, knowing no matter what, He will support me through the dark days when I’m weary from wandering this cement paved path. At times, this walk seems lonely, yet His answers fit. I am satisfied.