This is Forty

Gentle Reader,

I think I’m supposed to be bothered by having turned forty a few days ago, but I’m not. For ten years now I’ve been wondering if this would be the day/month/year in which I’ll hear that I’ve got cancer and/or need a liver transplant. I’m about to start seeing a high-risk breast cancer specialist for extra monitoring. Suffering and death are always just over my shoulder. That’ll be really morbid to some of you, but it’s just life for me.

So, no, I’m not bothered by being forty. I don’t feel the need to lie about it. If others want to think that I’m “less than” because I’m an aging woman, that’s their problem. Their wasted energy. In some cases, their misogyny. Gray hair and wrinkles come for us all, no matter how many products you use.

Nick Miller, one of the characters who make up the ensemble in New Girl, says it best: “I like getting older. I feel like I’m finally aging into my personality.” That’s definitely true for me.

It’s also true that I know who I am at forty in a way I didn’t at any other age. For example, just recently I’ve been learning how to look at my battle with anxiety a little differently. I’ve always characterized myself as “not brave.” But I’ve flown to four different locations over the last six months – even though I genuinely hate flying. I’ve presented at a conference, helped guide my church through a lead pastor transition, had a co-written paper published, preached five full messages and four devotional time kick-offs at a teen camp, and began the journey toward a ThD (which is the same thing as a PhD, only it’s focused in theology). Yes, I have doubts and panic attacks and I keep taking my little green pill every night. But I’ve done those things. Am doing those things. By the grace of God. What is that, if not brave?

We had to write a poem as one of our assignments during our cohort’s first face-to-face intensive a couple of weeks ago. This exercise opened my eyes to the blessedness of my life:

I am from the bookshelves,
from binding glue
and quiet corners.
From the prairies
that melt into woods,
dark and dense.
Full of things hidden and shy.
I am from the wildflowers,
and the pines,
skinny yet strong.
From the winds and the winter
and the bitter cold cloudless days.
I am from the sons of farmers
and the daughters of gamblers.
From Steven and Susan and brother Ben.
I am from the suddenly silly
and from those who prize simplicity.
From the surgical rooms,
where scalpels shine and disinfectant flows
and tumors and organs fill the metal dishes.
I am from, “Do you see that star?”
asked in quiet tones on a winter night
when Dad tells the Christmas story.
And from, “All dogs go to heaven,”
whispered by Mom as we mourn
my best friend of fourteen years.
I am from the top floor of Sacred Heart in Spokane, Washington,
which I’m sure is why I fear the heights,
And from Potlatch, Idaho, on the Palouse,
and the many towns of my mother’s people.
And from Meyer Road, dusty and unpaved.
From spaghetti and chocolate,
flannel shirts and ripped jeans,
and socks with Birkenstocks.
I am from North Idaho.
But mostly I am from Jesus, who loves me, this I know.

God is very good to this woman.

I don’t care about impressing anyone or being “cool,” whatever “cool” is. Those who want me to jump through those hoops have their own issues to deal with. I am content to be who God created me to be. White hairs, sore back, and all. I am not afraid to extend grace and love to others, nor am I afraid to speak the truth. I see the value in hard work, in fighting the battles God leads you to fight, and in allowing yourself to truly rest. I am content.

So this is forty. And it’s just fine.

GRACE AND PEACE ALONG THE WAY,

MARIE

Image Courtesy of Angèle Kamp