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My body wouldn’t function anymore. Life as I knew it would
be over. Intellectually, I knew this was silly. Emotionally,
that didn’t matter.
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The panic lasted for almost six months. I felt as if I’d
failed some cosmic keeper of the deadlines. I wasn’t
married. I didn’t even have a serious boyfriend. I didn’t
have any children. I didn’t even have a dog or cat. I didn’t
own a home, wasn’t part of a church or any civic
organizations. I had a good job, but still, what had I done
with my life? I was supposed to have accomplished so much
more by this time, or at least, that’s how it seemed at the
time.
Those six months were some of the worst and best of my life.
I woke up on my 30th birthday and, to my relief, my body
seemed to be the same as it had been when I’d gone to bed
the night before. With that disaster averted, I finally
turned my attention to my life and began to take stock, and
discovered that some of my concerns were real, and ones I
could work on. Others were just cultural expectations, and
it was time to let go of them.
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Perhaps the first expectation to go by the wayside was the
question of marriage and children. I’ve never really worried
much about having children, and I’m a firm believer that if
you’re not dying to have a child you shouldn’t have them.
It’s a little like writing a book: you’d better really love
the idea before you get started because that’s the only
thing that will ever get you through writer’s block and
other difficult writing days. Though now at the age of 49 I
have a wonderful
stepson, at 30 I wasn’t aching for a
child. Since the only clock ticking was the one of other
people’s expectations, and not my own biological one, I
stopped worrying about marriage and kids. They would happen,
if ever, when it was time.
In the meantime, I realized I liked the single life. I
enjoyed my freedom, and the fact that no one cared if I put
the cap on the toothpaste or not. I had friends. My life was
busy and enjoyable for the most part. If I got married some
day, so be it, but I wasn’t going to go to my grave
regretting my life no matter how it turned out. Whether
being single was a transitional stage or a permanent way of
life for me wasn’t in my control, and I was finally okay
with that.
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And a voice came from
heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." And
the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness.
Mark 1:11-12
Jesus is baptized and named the Beloved and then is
immediately driven to the wilderness.
Comforting or disturbing, this
is life. From one moment to the next, we are celebrating a wedding,
then grieving a loved one not present. We are feeling
calm, cool, and collected, and then are thrown off balance by a horrible
news report. We are bathing in the refreshing waters of baptism, then
all of a sudden are driven out into the wilderness.
In each community where I’ve lived and done ministry, there has always
been transition. In college and at seminary, we went through
presidential search processes. In a former congregation, we completely
restructured our way of doing ministry together. At Holden Village, a
retreat center in Washington, we called directors, a pastor, and new
staff, and said both hellos and goodbyes every day to guests who came
and went. These experiences seem to have prepared me well for campus
ministry, where there is constant change and transition: different
schedules every semester, students coming and going, people rising to
leadership and then moving on. I’m beginning to think that
this is more and more not just a way of life for young adults but
increasingly for many ages.
Whether dramatic or subtle, whether gradual or immediate, life is
changing and we are changing. We are called to places we would never
choose. We suffer and wonder if we’ll make it. We stretch and grow
stronger.
In all of this a voice calls out from heaven, “You are my beloved
children.” We remember how water splashed on us has claimed each one
of us forever, no matter what. Wherever we are on the timeline of life, God
claims us. We are not protected, though, by some kind of magic that
keeps us safe and secure from brokenness and the cruel realities of
this life. Instead, we are called immediately to struggle in the
wilderness.
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