Somewhere around 251.
That's how many books I want to read.
Books I figure will help me. challenge me. inspire me. change me. affirm me.
So many and yet so little.
So little time. quiet. inclination. energy. want-to.
And I beat...beat...beat the drum that I should.
Should read. better myself. equip myself. up the ante.
I wear disappointment and think I'm missing out.
I take on guilt believing I'm not doing all I should.
Because, after all, there are books. good books.
Ready to be read. Ready to be devoured.
And I am literarily starving it seems.
And then, sometimes, it occurs to me.
I'm intelligent. I'm prayerful (well, sometimes).
And I have read other books at other times and learned a thing or two.
And so, maybe just maybe, I know a little more than I think I do.
Maybe those parenting books I want to read will simply tell me what I already know but don't consistently practice. Maybe those discipleship books will remind me of spiritual disciplines I've known and forsaken. Maybe those marriage books will encourage me to become re-acquainted with humility instead of fighting for my own way.
And maybe, when life allows, and the stars align or I just sit myself down and crack a binding, I will find words of wisdom waiting.
Until then, I will try to remember that which I know to be true.
I will be thankful there are others who make time to write things I want to read.
I will keep adding to my list of books I want to read.
And I will try to not feel guilty that the list keeps growing.