I could lie to you.

I could lie to you.

I could tell you it was horrible and that I never liked it anyway. I could tell you it was a dungeon and that no one should ever have to be subjected to it. I could tell you it was a poor fit and that I never really felt like it was home. I could tell you that I was never really good at it.

I could tell you all of those things, but that would be a lie.

I loved every minute and wouldn’t trade the experience for the world. I was darn good at it and made better every day by the fantastic people around me who pushed me to better myself. It wasn’t a dungeon. It wasn’t unfair or ridiculous.

I could lie to you.

I could tell you I’m terrified. I could tell you I pace the floors wondering what to do. I could tell you that I’m not excited and that gloom hides around every corner, haunting each moment like a ghost on a mission. I could tell you we don’t know what to do and that I’ve lost faith.

I could tell you all of those things, but that would be a lie.

I am not afraid. I pace the floors, listening to great music and coming up with new creative things to do and say for people who want to pay me for it. It is not gloomy here, the music plays loudly, the laughs come easily and the future looks as bright as ever. My faith has not been shaken, but has rather been strengthened by the provision of hands and a plan much bigger than mine.

Yes, I could lie to you. But at this point, it is simply much easier to tell you the truth.