I went to church for the first time in a long time. I was taking a sabbatical from church. I was going with the wrong intentions and was waiting for that to wear off before I headed back. I don't know if it's gone, but I went.
This is the place that I did a lot of healing and growing from the various adventures that life has taken me on. It helped put the pieces of my heart back together after multiple people threw them to the floor and smashed them, it healed the heartbreak over leaving 30 children in Shreveport, it tried to heal my heartache for Portugal.
It was an experience last night. Normally I'm overwhelmed by visions of Portugal from my daily life there, but for some reason I kept being pulled back to the Momma's house in Shreveport. It was a vivid memory of every part of the house. It was so strong that I could smell the cookies made with butter flavored crisco baking in the oven, with the faint tickling of Community Coffee in the background. I could hear the heavy worried footsteps of my favorite cross-eyed White Cat. I could nearly reach out and touch the white wicker furniture that held me in the mornings when the sun was coming up and then again in the evenings when the sun was going back down.
I walked through the house in my mind. Through the den, past the kitchen, into the dining room to the entryway of the bathroom. From there I couldn't go any further because the weight of a friendship rests in the bedroom to my right. It is different in my mind then in reality, just like that friendship.
A reality that I can't bring myself to face.