Eight years ago, on the first week of March, my husband of 14 years moved out of the house we had purchased together only eight months before. That same week I got my first real job offer for any position not related to the church. Ever. The following week I turned 44. After the hands-down-worst-year-ever of my life, the chance for a fresh new start brought liberation and relief. Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten” played almost every day on the radio and became my manifesto. “Feel the rain on your skin. No one else can feel it for you …”
This month, I am settling into my new home. For eight years the house I never wanted–the house of broken memories–had also become the house where my son grew up, the house where I took a leap of faith into self-employment, the house where I fell in love again. And then again. The new memories patched the old ones and put on a fresh coat of paint. But the structural integrity of the foundation of my life there never felt entirely stable.
Today I turn 52. Continue Reading →