Discontent

I don't want to be here, but there is nowhere better to be.

Seasonal homelessness.

Yes, this house has aged photos of a face vaguely resembling the one I now carry.
Yes, my name covers many legal documents and child-etched crayon drawings that are found within these walls.
Yes, these books filling shelves, spanning years and basic knowledge, are mine.
Yes, these people, called family, have opened their arms in the most welcoming way they are able, yet I do not know how to accept the embrace.
But this is not home, and I frustratingly cannot fathom why.
It should be. It must be home.
Yet, it is not.

What word can you put to the feeling of wanting to run blindly in every direction all at once, yet your feet feel stapled to the ground beneath you?

Discontent.

How does one fight for contentment? How does one really learn to wait on the Lord, to rest in his refuge? To exist in profound contentment upon who God is?

I want it. I want to be still and know he is God.
Yet, I also know that this discontent is a prodding forward.
Yes, blindly, but definitely forward.

Oh, to be content in the small steps and the frozen days.
Be still.