Somewhere in the last year, everything shifted. Everything changed. Now, in some strange way, even after spending months on the far side of it all, I am suddenly standing back in the in-between and staring silently out at the scenery. As I told a friend only minutes ago, I am suddenly aware that the landscape of my life is drastically different than it was even six months ago. And to my surprise, I am bushwacking my way through thick underbrush of unexpected and seemingly delayed grief and processing.
The sheer amount of change has been a bit disorienting, as I am left with little familiar footing. I find few constants. The question rings in my ears almost daily: Who am I? I know that I have changed along with the scenery; that is part of life. Yet I ask myself now, Have those changes involved developing new muscles and navigational skills, or am I left only with a sunburn and atrophy in legs that once walked in faith? I do not know the answers to these questions, and what answers are out there seem to be slow in coming.
Of course, some things remain. I am an adventurer who aims her bike tires at the mud that most steer to avoid. I will take a road trip at the drop of a hat, and am always doing strange things just to say I did them. I feel stirred to the core by the suffering of the poor and marginalized, and no matter how many generous rich people I know, I still wonder in my heart if it is ever ok for a Christian to own a Lexus. I think coffee shops are a way of life, and poetry gets stuck in my head almost as often as music does. I see my father in me every time something is broken and I absolutely have to figure out how to fix it. I am moved to tears by music and by the beauty God brings out of our messes. I wrestle with myself and with God constantly, and am insanely introspective, at times to a fault. I live my life with legacy in mind, striving to do things with passion, and seeking to overcome the tendency to live out of fear. I like maps and legos and good books. I generally have a smart alec comment on hand.
Still, the larger questions remain. As I search for a clear view and some firmer footing, I call out with the psalmist: "Lead me to the rock that is higher than I." Lead me, Father, through the grief and joy and sorrow and adventure of change, and carry me safely through when my heart feels caught in the in-between.