Across My Bed.

It's six am, and I chew the corner of my lip in a funny, twisted grin and roll my eyes as I look at the spread next to me. I'm heaped in a pile, re-tucked under lavender blankets, coffee in hand, and breakfast already settling, with a plethora of literature spread across my bed. Does this represent my life and thoughts or what? :)

Everything Must Change by Brian McLaren.

My Journal, propped open with pen crested inside half-written pages.

The Journey of Desire by John Eldridge.

The Lucky One by Nicholas Sparks.

Motherless Daughters by Hope Edelman. A pencil book-marking my midnight rummagings.

The Valley of Vision: A collection of Puritan Prayers & Devotions.

A Time to Grieve by Carol Staudacher.

The Bible. Opened to my wondering on the call, leading, and faith of tentmaker Abram.

This schizophrenic array is almost comical in its aid and vice to me. Trying to help me 'work through' or 'write through' my thoughts and lead me and spur me through my life. My goodness, who does this at six am? Whose life is filled with this montage of mixings? Comedy and tragedy at once, like a canvas across my bed.