I feel like I'm entering the next chapter in the story of my life.
And as a writer, if I still am one, if I ever was one, I feel the need to leave some record of the metamorphosis for posterity. Who should require this posterity? Perhaps only my own vanity. But I hope not. I hope there is value in the telling.
I know it must be a new chapter because my own self offends me. I read my past descriptions of 'who I am' on this blog and it chafes like an ill-fitting wool sweater -itchy and small in the armpits. I'm squirming to get out of it and put on something new, something that breathes. I'm desperate to crack out of this small shell and discover what's actually happening in the world. I've become weary of my narcissistic wonderings: 'who I am' and 'what am I doing' and 'where am I going'. Instead I've discovered infinitely more engaging questions: Who is my Lord? And what is He doing?
There is also the issue of the burgeoning life in my womb. I carry with me an unborn child who beckons me into something, or is it that she's causing me to become aware of something already underway. Dare I name it "maturity"? Whatever this is, it feels an awful lot like growing up.
So I am becoming a disciple.
I am becoming a mother.
And the two are equally terrifying.
Both realities cause me to lift my eyes and wonder at the depravity of my world, my city, my own soul. Both realities cause me to lean hard into the Spirit I am only just getting to know and hear.
How can I get ready for a baby to come? How do I prepare for the King of Kings to come? Both are imminent. And both have already changed my life even though I've never met them face-to-face.
Beyond that I cannot say what the chapter is about. I suppose I will only learn in its telling.
