The art of never being alone.

It was hard this year.

My daughter was in school, and we put our dog, Rocco, down.

I played a game of who am I and what am I doing here?

And God so gently answered the question.

People hate lonely.

I hated lonely once too.

But this season of loneliness I've navigated this past year has taught me so much and has brought me closer to God.

When you're lonely, it seems like you're never alone. There was always something on my to do list: friends to meet with, a husband to love, a daughter to pray for. But there was also this niggling hole in my belly like this whole experiment was a reminder of what really matters.

And it was only when I pulled off those blinders that I could see what was gnawing through the ropes of my bowels: my sin.

Feminism is a thing that winds through my cells, a rhythm, a chorus harking back to the girl I used to be. I don't make bread. I don't wash baseboards. I don't stay at home because it's not the nineteen fifties, and I'm not your slave.

And chances are, I'm a whole heck of a lot smarter than you.

But then life turned on its head, and God watched me in the process. He whispered in my ear, Where are all those book smarts now? as I walked a new phase of motherhood and learned to solve the equations of the heart.

Apparently, a class I've failed in.

I do like to make bread. I sometimes wash my baseboards. And I'm at home alone with no one but me, myself, and I.

And God.

Teaching my daughter was a glorious gift. I get that now. Homeschooling a child is not merely bringing school to the home. It's bringing your child a sense of home as they absorb the world around them. It is a deep way to connect with somebody you love and to watch them grow into the person God designed them to be.

It used to be us at the table, dogs in our laps, dog hair in our mouths, one of Mozart's sonatas lulling us through the intricacies of math, and the whole world on hold as we diagrammed sentences and laughed our way through drawing caricatures of each other with a bouquet of colored pencils.

Not every day was great because not every day is great for anyone. But every day had purpose, and there we were, all four of us living like there would always be this much life.

But then the seasons turn, and there you are in a new one, and when you sit down to read, no one's rudely squishing right next to you in your red office chair or living on your lap like the queen of Sheba. You are as God birthed you into this world, except this time nobody's arms are reaching out and nobody is screaming from the pain of it all.

It is so horribly quiet.

But still, you relish it as the new season embarks. The scene is cut sharply, and a new phase emerges. You ready your body, your mind for new territory and relearn the art of never being alone.

And boy, are you ready for it.