Sometimes I travel to my front porch for inspiration.
Sometimes I travel to my front porch for inspiration.

I’m addicted–a bit–to HGTV. I love the shows where contestants are challenged to “repurpose” a flea market/yard sale find. Every time I watch an episode, I glance around my house and start making lists. I have a “molebook” devoted to repurposing. Right now I’m staring at an antique trunk that my mother refurbished for me and lined with satin and velvet as a place to store baby clothes and other special items. I’m envisioning a bold, shiny peacock-blue…

But this blog isn’t about furniture–although I’ll probably refer to my Pinterest obsession occasionally–it’s about Jesus. It’s about the journey I’m on that is similar to so many other journeys people experience when they decide to follow “The Way.”

I picture “The Way” as a signpost on the edge of a really woodsy trail. I can’t see ahead, I can only trust that the trail will get me where I’m supposed to go. And like every quest/journey/search novel ever written–there are dragons. There are steep, impossible mountains. There are chasms I can’t jump over. There are mirrors along the way reflecting my heart and mind–reminders that Jesus is continuing to repurpose this yard sale find–this broken, middle-aged grandmother, mother, wife, teacher, friend.

The journey is the story. Whether I’m traveling in my VW bug named Lola or riding my bike around the neighborhood, the journey becomes a metaphor. The metaphor becomes the story. Parables. I write parables.