I think you forget how old I am.
Were I 23, the timetable of my life would be solidly supported by my culture and make much more sense to my own heart.
- Married three years and counting, walking through the messy, learning how to lean in and laugh with my beloved.
- Living in an apartment, fancying a home of our own.
- Loving my dog and dreaming of tiny, human feet and ear-splitting cries.
- Celebrating baby after baby and birthday after birthday with those in our circle.
Thirty-two carries a weight I didn’t anticipate. There’s a rush to acquire, this persistent asking and grasping, a feeling of fleeting life. A body that daily reminds me gravity is at work and sugar is my enemy. And I find myself having serious conversations with my Creator about how old I am:
I don’t even remember 23.
This thing, where my life looks like 23 even though it’s 32, we’re not setting up to repeat this at 42, right?
Then this from my heartfriend:
But…you are WAY farther than you were at 23. And 32 might not be quite as old as it feels. And…God is likely very indifferent to our silly timetables. He is not confined to them. Ever.
I have brought you here, in this minute of 32.
Nicole at 23 bore a different last name and a pocket-sized view of God. Her foundation and knowledge of Him were not her own; she had borrowed from those around her to haphazardly manufacture a rough and shoddy surface that didn’t weather well. Questions about His character splintered the exterior, leaving fragments of guilt and shame. Pain, disillusionment, strained relationships, and sin annihilated the rest.
Nothing remained. All that I knew of Him, all that was built upon that foundation, crumbled.
He pursued me.
He brought me out.
He called my name.
And I’m 32.
The foundation I stand on, He built. His lovingkindness captivated me. He revealed His character, His faithfulness; He created my identity in Him. All that I know of Him, all that I stand on, He has forged through His Word, through conversation with Him, through fellowship with those who are the Church. He calls forth promises and plants dreams here.
And He refines with fire. He burns off that which is not true all too often for my comfort. He calls out lies that threaten to invade, infest, undo.
And Nicole, at 32, remains. His life is her bloodline. His Name is her inheritance. He is her foundation.
Thirty two is half over for me. Thirty-three is working it’s way into my vocabulary even now, and I cannot fathom wearing matching double digits yet again in this lifetime. For me and 32, I know this:
Sugar will forever be my enemy.
My body will never fit into those jeans again.
Gray is waving at me, sending me love letters, asking me to join the party.
And 32 is better than 23.
This heart of 32 years carries promises spoken by the Almighty.
32 knows He is the chief end of life, my greatest pursuit, worthy.
His fingerprints smudge the days of 32.
His hand covers my 32 and leads me into 33.
Things that left me pondering and/or shouting YES!
My mother didn’t drink Tab, but she was excellent at all to which she put her hand.
On being a soft place to land and the heart of friendship.
Looking for Him in the past, in the pain, in the now.
Because Kara Tippetts will rock your world–tissues necessary. For real.