I fall down sometimes, but I don’t ever give up.

I’ve been trying to run away from my life for most of my life, really. I can’t remember a time when my thoughts weren’t occupied by the deep creases of my imagination, wondering what life could be if it wasn’t this one I have. I don’t mean for that to imply that I dislike my life – I don’t really. I’ve just always been curious – what if it was different?

I’ve been trying to get away from Texas for as long as I can remember. Not because it’s bad, really. I’m just pretty restless. And there’s so much to see – why stay in one place? Life is so short, and there’s little time to spend places that don’t feel like joy.

All of that sounds wonderful, but the truth is – even the best places sometimes don’t feel like happiness. They aren’t bursting with joy. Some days my heart feels full of a dull ache – the kind that makes the rest of life feel uncomfortable. It seems to overflow with anxious energy, which fills my veins and makes life feel difficult.

So, what then? I’ve learned running away from my thoughts doesn’t work, as much as I wish it did. The uncomfortable energy that spills into each part of my consciousness doesn’t go away, no matter how many miles between any of the causes. And I guess the only answer I have is, that’s life. And running only allows more time to think.

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Sundays.

I’m not ever sure how I feel about Sundays. There are a lot of things that confuse me – and my feelings. There’s the disconnect of it being the end of one week and the beginning of another – it leaves my mind unsure how to move forward, how to process the events of the day. Am I ending my week on a good note? Am I starting fresh? Am I closing the chapter on something that, quite frankly, needs to be finished? Is this actually a terrible precursor to how the next six days will be? I never know, and that makes me anxious.

My Sundays are fairly typical. They start early and are usually a bit hurried if I’m planning on church, but the good kind of hurry. The fast pace of looking forward to something. I’ve found a church I love here – it’s small and everything inside it is loud – it’s full of community and hymns. It’s full to the brim of pleasantries and peace. It makes me happy and I never mind the rush of getting there.

But something strange always follows – a very real loneliness. Perhaps it’s the stark contrast of a quiet apartment after a building filled with so much joy. It’s always a bit jarring – why do I feel so incomplete after previously feeling so whole – so part of something bigger than me?

It happens. Every time.

The day continues on – I get ready for my week. I tidy my small space. I make lunches to make the week less hectic. I bake to try and find the peace I believe Sundays should provide.

They always end similarly, too. I collapse in bed. I spend many of my nights thinking about the complexities of the universe. Everyone does. But Sundays, I mostly think about myself. I wonder how I measure up. I feel suffocated by palpable loneliness sometimes. Other times – even a few minutes later – I feel so overwhelmed with joy. For this life I have and the people whom I love.

Sundays are different, and I guess that’s what they’re designed to be. Different. The end of something and the beginning of another. It all makes sense, for all the reasons it doesn’t. God would do something like this – make it all one thing and so completely another.

I’m thankful for all of the things I don’t understand about this day. I feel grateful for the ability to see the big picture of what it means and why we have it. I am overwhelmed by the intricacies of such a thing.

And I mostly just feel blessed. To have things I don’t understand. To be able to experience so much in so little time.

Sundays are my favorite.