Got out for my early run before anybody needed breakfast and spent the first few minutes convinced I'd made a poor decision. Legs heavy, shirt already sticking to my back, left ankle asking whether we had discussed this. Then somewhere around the second turn my breathing settled and I stopped keeping track of every step. I didn't go faster. I just stopped arguing with the fact that I was running. Back home I sat on the porch to take off my shoes and could feel my heartbeat slowing while the sweat cooled behind my ears. Our youngest came out and leaned against my shoulder, then complained that I was wet. Fair review of the experience.

A teenager asked whether saying a prayer when you aren't sure anyone hears it is dishonest. I could have given him a tidy answer, but I recognized the question too well and told him I wasn't certain that doubt and dishonesty were the same thing. I've been replaying it because part of me wanted to sound wiser than I felt, and part of me wanted to tell him far too much. There's a difference between making room for his question and using it to unload mine. I think I stayed on the right side of that, mostly. What I keep remembering is that he didn't look disappointed when I paused. He waited, which somehow made answering harder and easier at once.

One of the boys who used to come to youth group asked me to look over his wedding vows, and I had to read the message twice. I remember him refusing to speak above a mumble, and now he's trying to explain to somebody why he wants a whole life with her. Felt proud and unexpectedly tender about it, then immediately worried I'd turn his words into something that sounded like me. Beth caught me smiling at my phone and asked what happened. I told her, and for a minute I didn't mention the schedule or what I needed to do. I was just glad he still wanted me around for something important. That's a pretty good feeling to have on a regular Tuesday.