The fact that all the people I know are better writers than me often keeps me from putting ideas to page. I have a tender little underbelly that was first scraped up by Professor Sweet, creative writing expert. But it’s been, like, 17 years, so maybe I should just move on. Here goes.

I was a part of this really interesting endeavor called Hutchmoot in Nashville. It was billed as a conference on writing, music, art, and God but I knew as soon as I walked in that it was more. Before I talk about how much more it was, I want to give a reference point for the lens through which I write.

I have been in a desert following a pillar of fire for about three years. I live in a neighborhood that scares most people like me, including me. There is ugliness. There is poverty and helplessness and crime and a lot of yelling. Of course, there is brokenness everywhere in everyone, because that is the way the world looks until Jesus makes all things new. But my house is planted in a bleaker landscape. The secrets that people keep, the lies and numbing and faking that I see at work, in the grocery store or at church are much less sophisticated in front of my house. Instead of the superego taming a pained person to put on a brave face, I see the id from my front porch. I see the hurting. It is exposed. It is explosive. And it elicits a sense of helplessness in me like I have never known.

I struggle with the concept of the “calling” of God to do things. But the burden on my heart to live in this place was unmistakable; this place that needs caring for in a very practical way, like cleaning up spoons that were used to cook up crack from front yards. The fancy term is neighborhood revitalization. The truth: I am struggling to find my own vital signs in this place. I came home to find my kitchen window smashed one time. A lockbox was taken that was assumed to have drugs and money in it. Instead, it contained ultrasound pictures of my daughter. I was sitting on the porch and heard gun shots ring out one street over. The shooter ran past me and looked into my eyes with a depth that even some of my friends do not. It has broken me to live here.

So in this broken state, feeling like I could not leave fast enough, I boarded a plane for Nashville. I prayed that God would bring me back to life. I asked for a way to understand the three years in the desert.

Walking into the church where the conference was held, I was absorbed like a droplet of water into the sea. But I was still me and they were still them and the sea was not chaos, but comfort. I was in a safe place. I wasn’t alone and I didn’t have to be strong. I listened to people tell the old, old story and sing about the pain of us all and peace that is coming where He will wipe away every tear. I was given a moment of what will be eternity; a celebration of all that God has created. He has created creators with hearts to tell stories to give meaning to others too weak to imagine for themselves.

I am home. And while my time on this street has been short, I can clean up this neighborhood in what little time I have left. I can plant trees and I can teach people to garden and I can paint buildings. But closer to the heart of what it means to revitalize, I can tell stories. With words, I can shape a context for those roaming this bleak landscape. God comforted me with story. I will care as I have been cared for.

My prayers will always be with the storytellers who stay behind when we’ve moved on.

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