I am disillusioned with the fleeting comfort nostalgia endlessly promises yet is unable to deliver.

In the hope to, yet again, escape my present, I flutter between past and future fantastical pasts I’ve yet to experience in the fullness of time. 

‘Will I feel as numb as I do now and have for a while in 5 years time?’ 

‘Is this all life has to offer?’

I think I’m coming to the end of childhood, and early adulthood saying, and thinking deeply  ‘humph… this is it? This is as good as it gets? If it is, why don’t I feel better?”

Why am I so scared to consider who I once was, terrified to find a me long lost in pages of past emphatic journal entries riddled with passionate zeal. 

I feel like I am blindly backing into or stumbling across fleeting memories of me that, as soon as I attempt to relish in their inherent nostalgia, a hiraethian wave takes the mental wisps from me, and with them the potential glimmer of hope that a deeper comfort was nearly tangible…

Christmas morning in the 90’s. My first sunrise at 30,000 feet. The gentleness of a childhood kiss. The bellicose trauma of searing loss. In the mass cacophony of deep emotions there remains a constant through them all: feeling. They remind you you’re here, you’re alive, you matter.

But when that is taken, or hidden from you for so long you’ve forgotten…. then what? Our prayers become kin to Wendy and Pan, for a reawakening, for the sobriety to show up to your own life, for the wherewithal to soak in fully the scent of sweetgrass, for the capacity to respect death, and mourn its takings… what then? 

Shame. Mountains of shame heap shame upon their shameful selves to push me further into….? Shame. I feel bad and ashamed that I don’t feel as deeply, widely, often and fully as I one did. And the fear-ladened prospect that I might never again is a thought that, if realized, will surely lead me to despair…. what then?

When a man cannot feel nor remember how to, holding onto a waining hope that makes his heart sicker day after endless day… what then? Is it wrong to crave death? To cry out ‘MEMENTO MORI’?! To want to just be home forever, where the lost comforts of bliss in childhood are no longer a fleeting nostalgia but are the realized beauty of the kingdom of God?

I, like I used to tell my mom in moments of childhood assimilation, ‘don’t feel like home. I just want to go home’.

I want heaven so badly. And I want to be there far more than I want to work for it to be here. I thirst for a day when my wife can run, when she is free of pain. When my sister knows love. Where my mom’s abuse is healed. Where my dad’s homesickness is salved. Where my sister’s unbelief is undone. Where my brother’s fears are subsided.