It's October now. And in twenty-three days, I will be twenty years old. And as is usual when my birthday starts rolling around again every year, I've been doing some inventory, thinking of my life and this past year.
Thursday afternoon, I went walking in the park with my mom. And as I walked, I took note of the world around me. Of the early autumn air hinting of brisker weather on the horizon. Of the crunch of browning leaves beneath my Merrell hiking shoes. Of the rustle of wildlife- squirrels and chipmunks and deer- in the woods surrounding me on every side. Of the sunlight dappling in golden patches upon the black paved path before me.
And in that hour, my thoughts were cleared. I was walking the same trail that I had last walked with my mom and my sister almost six months prior. Yet I realized that my almost-twenty-year-old self isn't the same girl as the nineteen-year-old that had walked that path then.
I realized I had changed. I had grown up more in the past six months. In the past year since last autumn. In the past two years.
Her mom's caution and careful protection that that girl had once thought a little over-protective was now appreciated that she was loved so much to have someone worry about her. That girl had become more compromising in her relationships. Was she much of an outdoorsy person? Was she much for exercising? No, but somewhere along the way, she had learned the importance of compromise and how to be a girl who was up for anything. Making memories and spending quality time with the people she loved had more value to her now than what they did together. And there was no more putting her makeup on and wearing cute shoes to make sure she looked great even when she did exercise. (Seriously?) Somewhere in the past two years, in the past two months, she had grown more confident and more accepting of the person who God had created her to be.
My mom and I spent an hour walking on the wooded trail of the park, at the end of which I suggested, "We should stop at Bruster's on our way home." Of course, you could expect that from me. So we did.
In the late afternoon sunlight of a beautiful day, I found myself sitting on a red bench with my mom at Bruster's, a single scoop of double chocolate chunk ice cream in a paper cup in one hand and a red plastic spoon in the other. As I sat there, I was reminded of the Bruster's stops my mom and I would make together on our way home from my weekly riding lessons two years ago when I was eighteen. The same time of day, the same time of year, the same Bruster's, the same bench, the same kind of ice cream in my hand. We were making memories then and we were making memories now.
But so much had changed though since those days in the past two years. Those long pigtail braids, Levi bootcuts, dusty Ariat boots and spurs, and brown felt cowboy hat were replaced then by short straightened hair, black drawstring exercise shorts and a tank top, hiking sneakers, and an iPhone and car keys beside me. In the last two years, that eighteen-year-old and nineteen-year-old had experienced new emotions. She had felt love in a way she had never known, she felt hurt, loneliness, rejection, joy, hope, excitement, anticipation, sacrifice, surrender. She had lost old friendships and had built new ones. She had faced closed doors and opened doors. And somewhere in the journey of it all, she finally realized the beauty of the laughter and the tears. Of growing up. Somewhere in the journey of it all, I've begun to realize that my nearly-twenty-year-old self is stronger. Is bolder. Is more confident. That somewhere along the way in the past two years, in the past year, in the past six months, God's been continuing to change me from the inside out. And I'm finally seeing now that that's a beautiful new thing.
"Remember not the former things, nor consider the things of old. Behold, I am doing a new thing..." -Isaiah 43:18&19
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