When, on a Saturday morning, you look forward to your lawn man so you can affirm there are people in the world besides you, when you long for a smile or a “how are you,” you probably live in Lonelyville. If the house doesn’t really need attention, you’ve recently called your usuals, you’ve baked gift cookies, and you don’t have a single plan, you are the mayor of Lovelyville. It’s a fairly inactive, quiet, solitary place, so even this job of getting things done, making things happen, seems… hopeless.

You listen to a pastor’s message and then some worship music. You wonder why worship makes you weep. You turn to a podcast and learn about something that you’ll probably forget. After that you turn on the TV just because the quiet needs noise. There’s always Lonelyville’s grocery just down the road. Surely there is an item you need.

It’s relatively new. You can’t quite get use to Lonelyville. What was that your college chaplain said? We really do need each other? Why is that 40-year-old statement sitting on your empty couch? And what are you suppose to do about it? You’ve hosted lunches and dinners. You’ve driven yourself to that group and those bleachers. You’ve all but moved in to your kids’ lives. You’ve tried.

So on a Saturday morning in Lonelyville, you write about feeling lonely. You’ll read it to Jesus, post it online, back it up for future… who knows what. You’ll choke down the rocks in your throat and watch the minutes flip. You’ll try to envision a road out of Lonelyville or at least someone who will spend a minute beside you there. A council counsel member.

Until then, on Saturday, you’ll be in Lovelyville.