It’s me, Lord, back at our meet-up place here at the blog. Since you’ve promised never to leave us and since you’re everywhere anyway, I guess I never really went anywhere. I just haven’t been very good about keeping our date here to write together.

To be honest (and what other way is there to be in a conversation with you), I’ve got nuthin’ and I hate to sit here and be reminded by the blank page that I’ve got nothing. It’s embarrassing!

It’s not as if we don’t talk. Gosh, you’re my best friend and we talk about everything. Working with you has been the best part of writing this blog, because I didn’t want to just offer up a lot of blah-blah-blah rhetoric. People come to this table with heavy stuff, so the words matter. You’ve always had great ideas about what words might be most helpful. It’s felt like we were a team.

Have I reached the borders of my understanding of you? Maybe my well is dry. Everything on the planet goes through seasons of drought.

Some writers insist discipline is what gets you through times like this. Just write, they say. Sometimes that works. As a journalist, I could crank out news stories in my sleep. As a PR consultant, I could whip together client collateral materials or find creative ways to persuade people to buy widgets or support a cause without difficulty. But I can’t do that here. Glib platitudes stick to the roof of my mouth.

No, I’m crystal clear about who makes this blog tick…and it’s not me. The people who gather at this table don’t need my words; they need a personal encounter with you. 

This blog was never intended to be a substitute for time spent with you. Rather, it’s a simple amuse-bouche, a tasty spiritual morsel to whet people’s spiritual appetites–to remind them about this God who loves relentlessly, rules sovereignly, and refuses to give up on us when everyone else has.

How do you do it, Lord? The irrational and limitless grace. Never tiring of our company. Always available to listen. An utterly ridiculous capacity for patience and forgiveness. I’ve lived long enough, and been rescued and forgiven and nurtured and directed and loved and comforted so many times by you, that my gratitude has reduced me to reverential silence. I can’t seem to find words big enough anymore to tell your story. It’s like going on vacation and taking home a thimble of salt water to explain the beauty and majesty of the ocean. Pathetic.

I need you, Lord. We all need you. So, until you release the words again, I’ll wait and listen. Please welcome everyone who shows up here looking for you. Give them a taste of who you are and I know they’ll be glad they stopped by.