Dear Cheesus, I'm sorry. (Like Nacho Libre would say)

I guess it all has to come back to Jesus.

All of the excitement and energy and romantic parts of life are fleeting if not rooted, right?

In the last month I have:

1. Been in 7 airports
2. Thrown my body into the Atlantic and Pacific Ocean
3. Trekked through the jungle
4. Floated for hours on my back while I sang sweet songs to Heaven
5. Camped in the back of a van (with the hatch up, what what) in a parking lot before my friend's nuptial celebration
6. Ate a s'more!
7. Slept on a sailboat

That's my view when I looked up from my bed on the sailboat!

8. Faced my fear of tiny, clustered holes (SWEET LAWD, WHY?!)
9. Been so swooooooooned by a boy that I spontaneously (...nervously) broke into Sunday School songs at the sight of him
10. Rested my chin on the skin of good friends, faithful and funny

I've been a part of some good, good moments. And I'm grateful, but I'm also ungrateful.

Only the trained eye can tell how impressive of a dance move I'm in the middle of.

Because I sit here now on my bed in Georgia and those ten events seem far away, and I'm doing countless internet searches for the next "thing". And upon not finding it, I reached into a bag of Ketchup chips and hardly returned.

After the adventure, I'm first: exhausted, second: happy for my own space, third: restless like a pit bull in a dance class, fourth: defeated like a mouse with no cheese.

WHERE IS MY CHEESE?

My cheese is Jesus.

Sadly, I forget this all the time. When I get those impatient hunger pangs (read: What is my life?!) I move swiftly towards the cheap stuff wrapped in thin little plastic sheets or the expensive kinds-wheel shaped and on woodblocks. Nom, nom, gone. But it won't feed the gnawing inside me for purpose and acceptance. The cheese stands alone, guys! No career or accolade or french kiss at the beach can cut it. (Heh.)

There's gold in them hills. Golden apples.

Before I reach for something, I must stand still with palms to the sky and a prayer of remembrance on my tongue. It's a lesson I have to re-learn, probably repeatedly until I die and my finite mind is opened and his wonderful light is poured out on me like a laser beam. (Does anyone else get an 80s visual when I say this?) Until then, we must remind ourselves.

Papa in Heaven,

Help me to not take greatest pleasure in what I can accomplish and appreciate here. You are my greatest pleasure! 

May my gaze be directed upwards, and as it is so, may your glory enhance whatever is here before me.