I forget how thirsty I am until I guzzle a chilled cup of water, just like I forget how I crave Mom’s Saturday morning pancakes until their warm scent taunts me down from upstairs. Just the same, I forget how I need people until one is kind enough to make eye contact or care about the course of my day, maybe even life. Some days, I forget what’s good.
I forget how my soul swings to jazz music and my feet scramble to swing. I forget my body needs to be loved in the form of stretches on a yoga mat. I forget my home, well or unwell, is in my church doors.
I forget how good it is to get away. Or to come home. Sometimes, I forget about my past, others I forget about the promise of my future. I forget I don’t like avocadoes; I keep trying them over and over. I forget how sweet the morning times are, spotlighted with redemption and actual freedom. I forget what’s good those times.
I forget truth lives in my bones even when they feel lifeless. I forget what’s good, sometimes. I forget the country road leading out of town is good, often best, medicine. I forget “clouds have silver linings” and “the best is yet to come” and “God has a plan for you,” and all the other cliché-feel-good things. I forget what’s good.
A lot of times, I forget God loves those who live in the deserts. He loves them with sunshine and rain and starry nights. I forget he loves with shading trees and cool, cut grass. I forget He loves with old-time poetry and hymns; and I forget he loves us with his other people.
nonfiction narrator 