Some days I feel like running. I get sick of carrying my overweight backpack around, and tired of being held down by the burden of its contents.
I get worn out by walking all around campus with it every day, feeling it nag at my spine, telling me that I have work to do, pick up the pace.
But I don’t want to.
Some days the burden gets too heavy. My sewing is less than perfect and my instructor turns up her nose at my stitches. I burn my hands and cut my fingers trying to please people who are oblivious to my efforts to make them happy. My peers and instructors are constantly beating me over the head with secular, self-centered thinking, trying to prove to me why God is a myth, and that a mundane, long life is worthless compared to a short and extraordinary one. I speak to few, few speak to me. Sometimes I eat too much, or eat too little. I daydream of being creative, of finally doing something I enjoy and having time to enjoy it. Of my work being admired, being worth something. I dream of doing absolutely nothing for one day. I worry about my adequate grades, scheduling classes for next semester, what my major should really be. I worry about where my faith has gone, and wonder how I can get it back. I miss my family, friends, and home. I miss paying attention to my husband. I miss having genuine fun.
Why don’t I ever just put my bookbag down and run? Well, that would be silly. People are watching, walking to their classes, to home, to the bar. You don’t have time. It’s hilly, you’re out of shape. Cars are coming. It’s raining, windy, and you run like a penguin. Keep walking.
But some days I dream of throwing it down, and running.