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In my mind, I’m still 35 years old. I am actually 65, but I am often lulled into believing I have a long runway ahead of me with plenty of years left to fly. Even though I try to avoid thinking about my age, my brain won’t let me stay in denial very long and reminds me of my true timeline. Pat and I have been married for forty years. I’m the mother of three grown sons, mother-in-law to precious Angela, and ‘Nonie’ to my beloved granddaughter, Evie.
I have a growing collection of landscapes displayed around the house. Mountains and waterfalls, oceans, deserts with palm trees of my son’s creation. The other day, I found him leading his little sister in a painting class of sorts. I glanced up from homeschooling planning as he modeled how to sketch the snowy peaks of mountaintops and paint the triangular trees below. My daughter followed and painted a picture resembling her older brothers. Both landscapes are currently displayed beside each other on the fridge for all to marvel at.
I am reminded of a Tim Keller tweet: “When I am bitter and unforgiving, what I am really saying in my heart is, ‘I am better than you as I would never do what you just did.’” My response to someone with whom I disagree might be something like the second extreme above. Keller’s comment indicates that my religious performance of finger-pointing reveals that I need to refrain from being Judgmental Janet.
I still don’t know what it was about that particular morning in January 2001. I dropped my two oldest off at elementary school as usual and my youngest with the neighbor who watched him so I could complete my 4-5 hours of freelance work. But today, instead of going straight to work, this time, I walked into the house, went to my family room, laid face down on the floor, and literally begged God to take my life.