It's 11 A.M. and I'm sitting in my living room, no one else is in here and I'm listening to the rhythm of the dishwasher, the sounds of mom hitting cans against each other as she re-organizes the cupboards, and it's peaceful.

I've suffered a great deal of writer's block lately which is slightly aggravating. 

I've spent too much time staying up late at night, but the conversations are making it worth it.

I've realized I have far too much to say---and so it's been really nice to listen. To ask questions. 

To be invited into someone's life just because. Because they value me as a person enough to do so. Because in some way our very different lives have brought us to a common place where we can talk and ask and seek and explore and discover and wonder and know the world around us. There are so many questions but you know, it's okay to ask them. Don't let anyone tell you it's not.

I'm still a walking paradox, I'm convinced. I'm nothing great, yet in a way I am. I possess something (a calling, a purpose, a something) that not every single person does. Yet, at the same time, all of this is nothing because it could easily be done by someone else. I'm a writer. I'm a lover of people. With that, I hope to do something spectacular, but I'll be content with just something mediocre.

That's the problem with me. I strive for the spectacular, but it doesn't faze me in the slightest to be stuck or come out in the end with the mediocre. 

I'm surprised at this point that God still sees it fit to be unbelievably patient with me.