Time’s a thief with soft feet.
You never hear it coming—just feel it leaving.
And now it’s slinking off, dragging paradise behind it like a suitcase full of memory.
The jellyfish are vanishing, slipping through seawater like ghosts too tired to haunt.
Alabama’s soon to dissolve in the rearview mirror on Tuesday when we leave, soon to drift down that lazy river to that Cajun Hideaway—you know the song. The band “Alabama” knew how to weep with rhythm.
But Illinois?
Illinois is rising like a sun that never quite warms.
It’s cropping up over the horizon like a responsibility you can't dodge forever.
Brother Ray is preaching this morning back at the church—and I’m hungry to hear him.
Tom held it down last week like a spiritual street fighter. Respect.
But something's stirring again.
Remember what happened in Potholes of Restlessness? It’s happening again.
Don’t remember?
Go relive the ache here:
👉 https://write.as/logans-ledger-on-life/potholes-of-restlessness-g03h
Sleep’s been getting slippery.
Mind’s revving like an engine at a red light—thinking about that 14-and-a-half-hour ride back (not counting soul breaks and gas station coffee).
Thinking about next Sunday’s sermon.
Wondering if Ray’s about to drop a prophetic breadcrumb that ties into what I’ve been chewing on.
Thinking about that lead-pastor’s report and that clerk’s online madness that I’ll be handling upon my return.
Thinking about fur and paws and tails wagging like church fans in July—Mia, Roxy, and that sass-mouthed feline Spaghetti-Os.
Praying about starting up prayer walks again.
Drive-thru prayers—revival in park gear.
Heart felt, Lord driven.
Resurrecting Tuesday Night Prayer with boots on the ground and fire in our bellies.
Thinking of Cheryl at The Loft. Margie, too. Jack. Old souls. Old stories. Time to knock on those doors again and revisit memories.
Truth?
I’ve loved it here.
I’ve soaked up all the peace and Gulf Coast serenity I could siphon, shared all the views, and posted all the joy—the good, the bad (jellyfish), and the ugly (pics of me).
But I’m itching now.
Itching to return.
To my people.
To my tribe.
To my remnant.
To the ones who know my voice even when I ain't speaking.
I love you all. And I miss you deep.
I’m coming home.
I’m leaving Tuesday.
Won’t be in until Wednesday.
But…
… I’m coming home. :–)