Tomorrow I’m 24.
I feel a crisis coming on.
Josh turns 25 this year; his quarter-life crisis led him to buy a Jeep. I accept partial responsibility. When his 1990 Toyota Corolla (“Gilbert,” as in Anne) died earlier this year, I said, “Well, if you want a car that’ll last more than five years, maybe you should consider that it might be the last car before kids.” He did consider. And he went and bought a Jeep convertible.
He predicts that my crisis will take the form of “adopting five dogs” — that I’ll go to a shelter to adopt Ella’s brother and come back with the whole family.
It could happen.
As a youngster (who knew more than I do now) I pictured the mid-twenties season of life as one of stability, independence, multiple degrees, some inkling of career direction, and possibly family making. Projecting forms of those expectations onto real life now only leads to a mild depression based on nothing.
23 was a year of good things hidden in hard things — a year of Psalms, of grace, of listening. I’ve been humbled into silence and challenged finally to speak. And laugh. And it’s getting better, only because He makes all things new.
24 is the year of finally going home. Of dog number two. Of cars that work. Of having enough. Of starting grad school, for Josh. Of seeking, as always, for me. And that (I tell myself) is always okay.