As I sat on the floor of my family room, celebrating my best friend and the beautiful bride-to-be, I realized something.
Well, two things.
I realized I broke a promise to myself, first off. I swore I would never be the girl to say cliché phrases like beautiful bride-to-be (I mean, seriously, people? How can you make someone that is pure, magical dynamite into a basic, Instagram-caption worthy phrase?). Secondly I realized I am at the stage of life where we celebrate getting Tupperware — yes, a word I just had to spell-check.
No, I cannot suddenly have become any mainstream, average 22 year-old woman — too preoccupied by the mind-numbing screen and fellow words of my age-group to come up with my own. Double oh no though, because I am the girl planning on using my oven as storage space one day, so if we are entering into the domestic non-Ramen cooking stage of life, I may be screwed.
I’ll just come out and say it. Navigating the couple months I have had post-grad have been truly amazing and astoundingly difficult, if that combination is possible.
I spend my day-hours reading books in different languages and listening to Podcasts I don’t fully understand. My best friend since middle school is getting married to the most amazing man, and they haven’t given me a definitive answer if they will have enough floor space for my air mattress to fit in their bedroom (too far?). My closest gal from elementary school moved to Chicago, away from everyone she loves and reveled that she would rather be poor and head-over-heels in love with her job, than stuck with wealth and mundane tasks.
A few months ago, we were all similar. Similar life stages — dreading and simultaneously looking forward to turning our tassels, wondering if Wine Wednesday existed in the adult world, while living and breathing in wonderful community that knew us well.
Yet all at once we have been thrust into the abyss, waiting for our feet to land. We have over-glamorized past relationships and longed for ex’s. We have realized we hate our previously-chosen majors and are back to standardized tests in hopes that a GRE or GMAT score could better our fate. We have gone from living, hell, thriving in houses with our best friends or sorority sisters, back to our parents’ homes and the routine, Where r U? text. Maybe we have been married for a few months and are wondering if it is time to get a puppy; or maybe we are wondering if breaking up with them before graduation was actually a good idea or one your friends convinced you was a must over a late brunch and broken-heart; or maybe we are a single human in the Christian community — so if you just graduated solo, good-freaking-luck getting married because the Young-Life-find-a-wife train has left and the potential candidates you made eyes at in your Cru small group have their high school sweethearts back on their radars. Maybe we think big cities and skyscrapers can heal us, but truly, what is the difference between healing and relieving?
Because honestly, I think in our own ways we are all wandering right now. We are wandering through the fields of new jobs, the road of loneliness and looking at the corner named Adulthood.
Yes, some of us may be wandering with rings on our fingers, with a new Masters degree in-process or with a fancy job that should be the dream but is secretly soul-crushing, but is not all wandering equal?
Because while being a bridesmaid or groom or fiancé or partner makes us realize how old we are, does me not running different health insurance plans by my dad before I decide make me young? And while we are no longer living in college towns and have traded in twin beds for Queen-sized (except you, New Yorkers), do we not still lie in bed mindlessly scrolling through social media platforms debating our early run alarm while lusting at lives that aren’t our own?
I do not know your story, your marriage, your heart, your walk, your puppy, your family, your passions, if you prefer red or white (or pink), the fabric of the shirt you’re wearing, nor what you intend to use your oven space for. I do know, though, that whether you are confident of the totally amazing direction your life is jogging in, or whether you feel like you just jumped from the plane without a ‘chute, your life is still held.
I grasp and grapple with being fully known and loved. That’s big. The Bible and my Lord say that I am fully known. That while I may not know what my next move is, someone does, and — bonus points — He already knows my attitude about it. That while I am worried my heart could combust at any moment and am making sure we have the least number of spectators around, my heart is held.
In two hands.
By my Father.
A Father that has continually looked down and called me beloved, when I want to name myself as lost and as a worrier and wanderer. He has called me by name to His table. I cannot tell you what the table looks like or where in the Midwest it is, but I know I have a seat at it because while I am fleeting and sporadic and spontaneous, the Lord is trustworthy.
We serve a God who reigns and is sovereign, even when our job, relationship, and health-status fluctuate. That while no one has told me if Sonic runs at 3 a.m. are still acceptable and I still haven’t gotten the pamphlet on why cancer happens and need a definitive yes-or-no if chipped nail polish discredits my professionalism and desire the booklet on how to handle someone you love dying, I have been told that I am loved and that I am enough.
And that right there is enough. More than enough. Definitely more than what I deserve.
That children of the King — who may fall asleep in Ubers on the way to Taco Bell and still cannot pop the cork off of a champagne bottle and hypothetically may have eaten a soggy salad while getting a pedicure last week — are enough. That waiting for the moment where your life is perfectly together with a bow on top, eeehh . . . . it is not coming.
So run fast and live now. Run with a God who is madly and unfathomably in love with you and live with a trust in a plan that is much higher than your own. Because if God is the creator of the world and the mountain-mover, why are we all trying so dang hard to move them on our own?
Also, I’m sure my mom could tell us the answer on the chipped nail polish question.