Flashes of Thought.

I don't know about you, but it seems to me that most of my life has been spent running. Running away from many things. Both real and imagined things. Both good and bad things. On the surface of it, the running takes some sophisticated and even respectable names. Sometimes I call it ambition, sometimes I call it 'my nature', sometimes I call it 'living my best life', and other such fancy names. But in the stillness of my soul, when the waters have stopped churning, I hear the whisper: running. Running. So much for my show and talk of boldness. Inside me is a fear of confronting the very things I am running from. All it takes is for me to imagine, ' Deborah, the Philistines are upon you! ' and off I will be gone. Never waiting to establish whether the Philistines were really there or not. So much has been my running that I hardly know what it is to be still. And therein lies the misery and bitter tragedy of my life: that I have missed so much in li...