The French philosopher, Jean-Paul Sartre wrote a play called No Exit. I won’t be able to do it justice here, but three of the four characters in the drama get locked in a room together for eternity. You probably read this play in high school English, but if you didn’t, that plot might sound familiar right now as we reach the 97th day of May in the year of our Lord, two-thousand and twenty.
I was in the car when I got the text. A woman I’ve known for years and years was dying. I hadn’t been in touch with this dear friend of mine for a while because my circle shifted as it seems to from one season to the next. I’d known about her battle with cancer because she’d shared about it openly on Facebook. I should have known to interpret her positive posts through her immense faith and optimism. She was one of the most hopeful people I’ve ever known, so of course it was worse than many of us thought.
I haven’t written on here in ages. Anymore, it feels like nearly all of my creative faculties are directed toward sermons, the occasional class and random documents evangelizing infant baptism in a culture that’s afraid of things appearing too Roman.
But, I’m in San Diego, at a strange coffee shop and I’ve been craving the time to sit down and just write- say something stupid and then attempt to be profound. It’s a desire that I’ve been neglecting because there’s the gym, food prep, relationships, all kinds of things that I should be doing, things that I desire to do and I’ve just let them take priority over doing this. But today, I have nothing planned until lunch, a treat that doesn’t come often these days.