So much of my story is a life after death.
Here I am again…
the phone rang.
Just, wow. The death of a dream sometimes feels like such a real death. Something snatched away before it bloomed. The plans, the thoughts, the decisions and everything made leading up to something that was, for whatever reason, simply not meant to be.
I’m left kneeling, palms up, again asking why.
I’m left at the cross roads of options. The Robert Frost moment. Mad for another’s sake. I can be bitter angry, questioning life with clenched fists, fingernails digging in and bite my lip until it bleeds. Because, if I was honest, that is how I feel right now in this very moment.
Or.
I can choose life.
The insanity and beauty colliding, tumultuous, in my soul.
Even if it’s not stepping that direction, just turning my head the right way.
I touch the dark wood doors of my house from the late 1970’s, the hardware from the same time period that I hate but have kept because, well, it’s vintage now and we never could afford to change it before. Breathe deep. I look at the popcorn ceilings I’ve hated these last 3 years that I thought I was leaving in less than a month for another state. Exhale. I look at the dirty floor tile and carpet with little boys life sewn in deeply.
But…
He hems me in, behind and before.
He has plans to prosper, not to harm.
He has a plan for us. He has a PLAN.
He is.
breath of life.
Major life directional changes are hard- when you felt the blessing and rightness of decisions and plans made with the sun at your back- then to have them not work out is … confusing… to say the least. I’m still hurting. A lot. I’m shocked. Another door is closed. In these moments, my doubt creeps in, along with pride, frustration and the stubbornness of a child, screeching MY WAY.
I’m not saying this is easy, but I am choosing the good against the pull of my flesh. I don’t have to understand.
But I trust. I have to trust. I do trust.