{by Mary Lauren Weimer, My 3 Little Birds}

I almost didn’t go.

It was spitting Michigan sleet and I was tempted to change into sweatpants and curl up on my chair with dinner in my lap.

Sometimes, if I turned the antenna in just the right way, I could pick up Canadian channels. To me that sounded almost exotic–watching foreign television. But I’d worn a dress and heels to work, and all that wardrobe effort would have been wasted on another evening alone in my apartment if I didn’t venture out.

It was Ash Wednesday.  I needed Lent like detox.

I’d spent a long time searching for arrows in my life, guideposts telling me which way to go. Some came in the form of the lives I modeled:

 The vegetarian girl.

The young mother across the street.

The twenty-something who worked at my hometown music store, the one who steered me toward Joni Mitchell.

Some came in what I thought were signs:

A “C” in Sophomore English meant I had no future as a writer.

The boy who treated me badly meant that others would too.

Some came from others’ expectations…my family, teachers, professors, friends.

I looked to them to tell me where I was going, and more than that, who I was.  There had been years of living a want-to life.

I’d talked to my mother earlier that day. She told me the trees back home had started to bloom.

I cried,

hungry for Spring,

ready for change,

sick for home.

I sat by myself in that church and let the familiar words wash me clean.  For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

After the Gospel a woman stood and approached the lectern.  She clearly wasn’t a priest but on that dreary Detroit Ash Wednesday I heard the voice of God through her West Virginia accent.  It was a gift.

In that service I was home.

That day I learned the difference between looking for myself in others and listening to the voice inside.

Looking, listening.  Searching.

I still get lost on the path to finding.

I save the moments, though–like the unexpected Appalachian voice in a Michigan church.

These moments are crumbs along the way.  Bread.

I take them and eat, well fed for the day.

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Read Mary Lauren’s original post and comments at My 3 Little Birds, a blogging spot she declares a pillow fort.   Follow her on Twitter and Facebook for even more of her MOMents of Motherhood.

{Pick by Story Editor Robin Dance :: @PensieveRobin.}