Houston, Houston…

I have a love-hate relationship with this city.

Love, in that I have a lot of good memories here, and it’s where my family is, where I grew up. Love, in that this is a pretty decent place and I have a good church here.

Hate, in that every time I come back here after I’ve been away, it feels less and less like home and more and more like a place I live on the edges of. Hate, in that I also have a lot of terrible memories here. Hate, because, as in the words of The Normals, “Life, it just goes on when the traveler’s gone, and that’s the hardest part.” I feel like I revert to awkward, lazy, high-school me when I come back here, and it’s hard for me to weave back through the warp and woof of lives that have kept on without me.

There’s so much of me that wants to leave it all behind, to get out and start over like I’ve managed to do frequently in the past eight years. But there’s also a small part that asks, should I stay and let Houston be redeemed for me, and me for it?

I don’t know.

What I do know is that regardless of what the answer is, something in me needs to be healed somehow. I’ve been wrestling for a while with how that might look.

The reason I’m writing about this is that I might be staying here for a while after all (emphasis on the “might”–very embryonic stage at this point), and I’m feeling rather ambiguous about it. I could use some wisdom, clearly. So, if you pray, there’s my prayer request. And if you’re a wise person (which many of you are), feel free to pass some of that along.

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