I crave a small life. This is good, because it’s what I’ve got.
I attended small schools, bought a small house, had a small wedding. That’s false. It was sort of huge — apologies to all the attendees we dragged into the middle of nowhere and never saw.
But where life’s not as small I’d like it simple, still. On a mountain, in a plastic chair, eating homemade dinner rolls, in a place with no address. Little kids wiping their faces on my wedding dress.
I love this because I’ve convinced myself that it follows only naturally that a small life demands a small amount of . . . say, tact. Or bravery or forgiveness. Natural intelligence.
But anyone who’s lived, and even my die-hard introverted soul, knows that this is false. I could shrink my life down to my living room, shy from all responsibility, and still feel an urge in my soul to be big, be brave. Go to the basement by yourself. Pet a rottweiler. Speak your mind. Stand up for the underdog and get punched in the eye.
Smile into a pound of frozen peas because you know the pain in your face means you did right. A big thing came by and you knocked it out of the park.
May we all be gracious and tenacious enough to do the biggest small things our lives demand of us.