The night before their wedding, as a joke, sort of, they gave me a red matchbox convertible--without a backseat. It was their way of saying that my days of being number three were over. It was a relief. You know? Not that I hadn't loved weekends in Maine or trips to Rochester, or the year of being the third wheel. I counted it a privilege and I'd do it again. I promise. But true confessions are that I was tired and I was ready for them to just be married and be together--without me.

I've been in the backseat again this week. Last night, driving home from San Francisco, over the Golden Gate Bridge and through the city of hills, where it used to be three of us, happy to be quiet or to argue or to be, it is now four--and he was quite happy to exercise the vocal capacity he's been given by both of his parents.

I said to her last night, that there were times in the past few years when I hated being number three, but now, looking back I don't mind it at all. And, I added, though I hope that someday I'll be someone's number two, in the meantime, thanks for making me a part this final count.

Allow me to confess something: In late July I fell asleep at a leadership meeting during worship. I'm not sure how it happened, or what woke me up, but I was every common cliche about sleeping. When I did wake up, our fearless leader was singing about hills and eyes and the Maker of both, and I curled closer to the armchair and listened with my eyes closed and my heart awake.

In the past month several people have stopped me in hallways, in living rooms, pulled me aside at church or left messages saying something with a common theme: this next season will be a season of rest. And the moment I woke up in that blue armchair, I realized that God loves rest. That He made rest and that I have not been a ready receiver of it. Be and Go are my mantras and Do and Do More are my modus operandi. Even sleep is never restful because I am thinking and doing even then.

Isaiah 30.15 says, though, that our salvation is found in repentance and rest, and that our strength is a result of quietness and trust. I am learning, folks, that God loves it when we sleep. When we rest. When we step back from every one of those circumstances that makes us hurried and harried and let Him let us rest.

Allow me to confess something else, though, the sort of rest I'm experiencing now is filled with projects and escapades and being and laughing--but I said something to the dear girl this morning that puts it all into perspective: This feels like rest for me because I'm doing all sorts of things I usually feel too pressured otherwise to do. I love it!

Since it's a bare my soul day, this boy has absolutely captured my heart.

I said I would, and so I will. Been hesitant to for a few reasons, not the least of which is I don't want anyone knowing how much fun I'm having without them.

I said to my dear friend today that being here is good for me. I'm not sure if it's because we're spending hours working on projects in the same room, happy to not talk, happy to talk. If it's because she's introduced me to the wonders of google-reader and suddenly my daily regiment of four blogs can be amassed to a lot more in a lot less time (and this is good because it means more inspiration). It may be because I have been following around a baby every time he's not following me around. It might be because we're eating yummy things we've harvested or picked out ourselves. Or perhaps it's because long overdue projects are getting done, or new ones are being attempted. Maybe it's the long conversations about family, church, home, Jesus, finances, goodness, fruit, furniture, joy, and flowers are sweet and familiar. All I know is that this past week has been sweet and precious.

I asked her tonight as we put together this dear boy's crib and bedding if she was tired of me. I didn't quite expect the look in her eyes when she replied, "No. I hate to think about you leaving. I try not to think about it ever."

Good. I won't either.

I'm not blind. I see you waiting there. Stacking up in the site-traffic, checking your RSS, your sage. I've gotten your emails and your comments. And I've been ignoring you just fine. Hardly thinking about you at all, I mean, in terms of this site. But I see you just the same.

I'm trying. Honestly I am. Trying to write something that isn't my heart in black and white. Trying to say anything that would organize the thoughts. Trying to just type something, at least. So here. Taste this:

I've been home for one week now. And for the first time in two years I miss Tennessee. I know, aren't you shocked? You who are most familiar with the sporatic nature of me and my emotions. You're shocked, right? Heh. I think I prayed so heartily for a change in my heart concerning that place that I am reeling in amazement at the change.

I miss Tennessee. I miss my church there. I miss my friends there. I miss the family we created because we didn't have our own. I miss family dinners and laughing so hard I would cry. I miss waking up in the morning, girls straggling out of bed to the smell of coffee and the sound of stirring. I miss the birthday party this weekend, taking place at a favorite family's home. I miss secretly videotaping our neighbors and feeding our stray cat Puma/Kitty/Orange. I miss our squeaky dryer and I miss our college and career group. Mostly I just miss feeling a part of something.

It could be that my most hospitable family, the people with whom I live here in New York, are on vacation this week. And so I've grown tired of eating eggs and not being able to drive my car which didn't pass inspection, but mostly tired of being home alone. It could be that I'm not fully plugged back into this place. Almost every face is new, and the old ones have all grown up. It could be that I haven't found a job yet, or that I know I'm leaving in a few days to spend a few weeks in another state. It could be any number of things.

But mostly I think it's just change. The thing that pricks me in the places I least like to be touched. The thing that startles me from stuper and says there must be more to life than sqeaky dryers, stray cats, and laughing hysterically with the people who make me laugh more than anyone.

So don't let me wallow, and I'm not asking for tea and sympathy. I'm really just writing because I haven't written anything in so long. I'm really just confessing that as sweet as homecoming sounds from far away, when that homecoming becomes solid and real, we remember all the good things we had in that other place we called home.

And we remember why Heaven is such a sweet exchange--there's no changing nor shifting in shadow there. It's forever, and I like the sound of that.