I’ve thought about turning 30 entirely too much. Enough that it’s become more of a milestone than it is. I have two children, a nearly 8-year-old marriage, a writing career. It makes sense that I would be well into adulthood.
But it still feels strange.
I feel a little worn. More and more OK with the fact that I’ll probably never wear a size 2 or even a size 8, maybe. OK with my frizzy hair and overgrown eyebrows and even OK with my crazy back and its healing process.
I am Beloved–by my sweetheart, by my kids, by my dear friends, by my mom and dad and sister and scores of relatives, and most of all, by my Maker.
At almost-30, I am finally getting the Whole of the Gospel, that it’s so little about me and so much about God and His love and His work. I am vapor. And that’s OK.
Rubbed a little raw inside. Belly stretched from two babies’ growth inside. Freckles. Gray hairs.
Maybe, like the Velveteen Rabbit, I am Real now.
Sometimes on Fridays I write along with others for just five minutes, letting all the words spill out and refusing to edit them. This week’s topic was “Real.”