Recently, a dear friend prayed over me and her prayer for me was that I would be honest with where I am at in life right now. She knows me well enough to know that I am generally honest and I despise dishonesty (it is one of the lowest forms of disrespect), but she prayed that I would be honest anyway. I was a little miffed, frankly. I thought maybe she hadn’t heard me say I was just fine and that everything was going to be okay. In my eyes, if I say it is fine, it is.

In true friend form, however, she had chosen not to listen to my words but to my heart where the most honest part of a person resides. And in my heart, she heard my unwillingness to acknowledge real sorrow and the lack of understanding I have about why this is all happening as it is.

For what it is worth, her prayer worked. I have wrestled over and over about what to write next on this wee blog and now I’ve got it. Here’s a little honest bit about me, sisters.

I am going to nursing school in a few weeks and I cannot wait. I’ve long waited for this time and I am so glad it is here. But I’m now 500 miles away from where I thought I would be when this all began. That’s a long story and not ready for the telling, really, but what I can tell you is how hard it has been. Honestly.

In the last week, I moved out of a 1200 square foot townhouse into a 9×9 room. Aside from clothes and absolute necessities and books, my possessions are in a row in a storage unit gathering dust. I don’t mind the little space as I adore nooks and crannies, but I don’t like seeing things wastefully sitting there when someone else could be using them. I want to sell it all. I’ve often longed to get to a point where I could pack a bag and leave the country at any moment and seeing all that purposeless STUFF makes me feel burdened.

I found myself bawling in that same storage unit just yesterday afternoon when all the things happening just got to be too much. I’m so glad no one was there. I am not a publicly teary individual and I need space to cry alone these days. Storage units are good for that.

I’ve battled feelings of failure this week. No woman wants to hit her thirties, leave her career, and move back in with her parents, right? I mean, really. In those moments when I’ve listened to those lies about being a failure, I neglect to remember that the Lord brought me to this time and this place and that He has a plan that may look dubious to me but looks good to Him. I neglect to remember that this is the second time in my adulthood that I have walked away from a safe life and into wildness. I neglect to remember that the last time I walked away, I hopped on a sailboat and embarked on the craziest and most beautiful months of my life. I neglect to remember that there was purpose in living dangerously.

But you know what else I’ve done? I’ve been welcomed with open arms and excitedness by old friends. These people have known me since my high school years and they’ve seen my worst. While I love and miss the people who have filled my days in the last six years, those people will never know my worst. Not really. I could tell them the stories but they didn’t live it with me. There is a quiet bit of joy in the smile of someone who has known you at your darkest and still chooses to love you.

I sat on the back patio last night of my parents’ house and I shucked sweet corn for dinner. This is a trick I learned the first summer I lived in Iowa, and I’ve not forgotten it yet. A good bit of therapy exists in the peeling off to reveal the goodness beneath.

I drink coffee with wild abandon here. I watch my mum and dad fight desperately to make it, and I see how they love and serve the people who enter their shop. I am learning good things from them.

I whisk the dog away for jaunts well before sunrise, and we both stumble into the house, sweaty and worn and happy. He’s protective and huge, and I feel safe walking anywhere with him at my side. We’ve seen a lot of miles together, he and I.

When unpacking, I got so caught up in putting my bookshelves together that I forgot I should probably leave room for my clothes. I didn’t even notice until my father walked in and remarked that I now had no space for a dresser in my room. I just explained that I forgot and then I chuckled. I’ve never been a typical girl. Me caring more about my books and textbooks having space than my clothes and shoes is quite the norm for me. I am clearly more interested in what I’m reading than what I’m wearing.

And tonight…tonight I am sitting in the backyard listening to the neighborhood settle down for the night. And writing. I haven’t written outside in so long, it feels foreign. Someday soon it will be like breathing again and my heart will rest in the cacophony of quiet stroke of pen to page and rustle of wind to leaf.

Honestly, it is not all fine. Far from it. So many unknowns. But it is good. Honestly.


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