What a whirlwind 2018 has been. It was quasi-normal until it all hit the fan. Then it was no longer normal or like anything else I’ve ever known.
That’s ok though. I am 62 years old and if I haven’t learned to roll with the punches yet, I’m in big trouble. Now you may argue that rolling with the punches is not a common response to being sucker-punched in the gut. Or more accurately, sucker-punched in the gut with a 2X4 wrapped in barbed wire coated with acid and spikes on the end.
People tell me frequently that they are amazed at my strength. That really cracks me up. I am not particularly a strong person–especially not emotionally. One thing I am, however, is a learner from past mistakes.
In my early 30’s I experienced the death of three individuals most dear to me, and rather than allow myself to grieve, I stuffed it all. When I finally allowed myself to peek at what had been brewing for months, it was no longer grief. It had fermented into recklessness, anger, neediness and a host of other unhealthy buzzwords that threw me into a trainwreck that took almost two decades to untangle.
Back to 2018 and the adventure.
I’ve had to reevaluate what I consider adventurous. It’s not always fun and usually has at least a hint fear or suggestion of unexpected outcome. And, to that end I maintain that this year has been an adventure. Breathtaking, excruciating, unknown, painful. But, it is still more challenging and rewarding than anything else I’ve ever lived through.
And the year is not even half over.
This time I’ve made grief an adventure rather than something sealed away to ferment. Let’s see where God is taking this thing.