My phone has been doing a strange thing lately where it naturally adds a sepia tone on a lot of my outdoor photos. It’s probably a setting I need to adjust, but it actually captures how my summer has been going, and how I’ve been feeling about life.
Last fall, I made myself go through a period of grief, taking an honest look at my life and decisions–especially in the area of relationships. That area looks like a hopeless pile of rubble that just sits there, year after year, strewn with mementos of heartache and failure. So many of my limiting beliefs had to do with the culture(s) I was raised in and toxic voices that lied to me about my worthiness. I had very solid mentors walk me through the grief, and even sift through the rubble to find gems of truth and insight.
Embark, a discipleship class I took this past spring, marked a new beginning for me. It was the start of so much healing, as well as new, life-giving friendships, a new depth of vulnerability in some of my old ones, and a discovery of strength and higher capabilities. The people behind the toxic voices have kind of just faded out of my life. Business has also been going very well, and I’m growing in my leadership abilities.
My best friend and I took our semi-annual beach day trip a few months ago. We’ve been doing this day trip since 2011, and we traditionally get an order of loaded nachos at our favorite Rehoboth Beach restaurant. As we ate, I said, “Kiri, something about today feels strange–not in a bad way. For whatever reason, I feel like today is our last beach day–at least, the way we’ve always done it. I don’t know why, and I could be crazy… but I feel like next year, our lives are gonna look totally different.” I did everything I could to soak up the memory of the day, feeling the sun on my skin, tasting every lick of ice cream, belting out every pop song on the road trip playlist, giggling about boys like we were 12.
I couldn’t help but look back at how much had changed in a year. This time last year, my niece Aly arrived. I remember the tension of the hospital waiting room, not just waiting for Aly to be born, but also on the ordeal of my sister’s birth complications where her life hung in the balance. That was the start of my deep grief period.
Now, Aly is a year old. She’s learning to talk, and her smile and laughter are contagious. My dad, stepmom, and youngest sister recently came up from Texas to meet her. Instead of the family tension I expected, we had an amazing time together. Relationships were actually mended. We befriended ponies and ate dairy farm ice cream. The joy was surreal. Just like the beach with Kiri, I soaked up every golden moment I could, because it felt like the sweetest gift.
I don’t actually know what the future holds, and my intuition might be crazy. But I do know that, if life could change this much in a year–from a pit of grief to a golden summer with a healed heart (and a thriving business!)–then maybe there’s even more and better to come, right on the horizon.
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