Yesterday was a fine day. I got good work done. I had meetings with fun, good-hearted people. Dad and I located the pooches after they took a wander across the river.  Nothing overwhelmingly great. Nothing overwhelmingly hard. A day. A simple, normal day.

Yet, on the ride back over to the farm, my heart ached.  Bad.  I turned off the audiobook and just drove, a puppy sound asleep on the seat behind me. I passed all the political signs sprouting by driveways and crossed miles of pavement divided by two yellow lines.  I drove and prayed and cried.

Ten times. Fifteen times I picked up my phone to call someone and found I didn’t really have anyone to call. Or more accurately, I didn’t really have any real reason to call anyone. Not reason enough, anyway, to disturb dinner or bedtime. I was just lonely, and I wanted to talk with someone.

It’s these days, these ordinary days that are the hardest for me as a single person.  On really bad days, where the world rips me raw or tears my heart in two, I feel justified in calling friends to weep and be comforted. And on days when it seems like the very sun shines from my eyes, I can call them to celebrate and share joy.  But on ordinary days, it’s hard to put into words what I want to share.

Because the truth is that I just want to share the day. With someone whose allegiance to me is only secondary to One.

I love my life – this dream I am living where I do work I love, have time to serve others, see these mountains dance with the gold of autumn every day. I love it. But it is lonely sometimes. As I know marriage to be, too

I know I can always reach out in prayer. There is comfort in that, but not all comfort. It is not the same to talk to the God I cannot audibly hear or physically see. It’s powerful, but it is not the same.

On days, like yesterday, I long for that one person who has agreed to be the one I call for no reason in particular.  Who will answer. Who will listen. Who will share.

Last night, when I crossed over past Faber and into the mountain valley where I live, a sickle moon hung over the mountains just painted purple beneath a smoky pink sky.  There was a balm in that.  Not healing. Not deliverance. But balm for this wound. And sometimes, that is enough.

When do you feel most lonely?