Desert ground.

I've learned many important things about marriage before I actually got married.  One of those things was that getting married doesn't erase the loneliness in your life.  It makes sense - the marriage of two people means the marriage of two sinful people who live in a sinful world.  And while Jesus is our ultimate source of comfort and joy, it doesn't mean you won't ever feel lonely.

This year was a pretty rough one, in that every area of my life was in transition, change, and in some cases, chaos.  But in the invisible and subtle ways that God often works, He pulled me through.  I don't really know how He did (though I'm pretty sure having Nathan in my life had something to do with it), and I'm still having trouble connecting with God and experiencing His presence in my life this year, but I feel like the storm has passed for the time being.  It still has its effects, but that's a whole different story.

Though, as I've been reflecting on my lack of best friends, mourning the loss of community, and chewing through the time and effort it takes to build a new one, I think I'm beginning to feel a sense of loneliness sink in for the first time.  I think part of what evoked it is from the fact that I'm in NYC without Pam or my dad around, and Nathan is away hiking the Appalachian Trail for a few days in radio silence.  Some of it just comes out of the basic desire for someone to take initiative with me - to be excited that I was in NYC and express desire to spend time with me without me having to fish for it.

From there, my loneliness manifests itself just from thinking - wondering whether or not I make some difference in the world and if I really matter to people besides those who are kind of obligated to love me (aka, my family and Nathan).   Or what my life would look like if I didn't work for InterVarsity, having some pretty stellar colleagues who are there for me simply through the circumstances that we work together.  Even though in movies it's always inspiring and sweet when something tragic happens to someone and they discover all of these people who come flocking to them with encouragement and support, I don't want to wait for something tragic to happen to me to find out who really cares.

It sounds pretty emo when I read that.  But I think it feels like because I've moved out of Rochester, I've moved out of people's lives.  It feels like it has caused a chasm in physical distance and relational distance, and no one really wants to make the effort to reach across it, even just to meet me halfway.  There's this hunger in me to go deeper with others; not necessarily to debate things like political views, theological beliefs, or the weaknesses of this generation; but instead to listen to others' struggles, character flaws, or mistakes, and to be able to share mine.  I want to be one of the first ones they think of to share some joyful piece of news, and vice versa; simply so that we could be there for each other.