A Letter for Those Who Feel Late for Life
My Dear Lovelians, Lifers & Misplaced Puzzle Pieces,
I have a sunroom. My neighbors’ children laugh and scream outside my window. My Place exists now.
This is what I call it, My Place. I just cannot imagine calling it Home yet because all my memories are bound in leather and contained in cardboard boxes. The walls are too empty; the space so lacking in presence. My Place is where I hang my hats but not yet where I rest my heart, my safe place. My oasis. I just left that behind.
And it hurts.
Now that I am here, I feel…different…than I imagined. I feel tired. All I want to do is sleep. Food seems like a suggestion, not a mandatory part of life, and the desire to leave the couch and decorate my new space, which I usually adore…is virtually non-existent. I literally have no wish to do anything whatsoever. Sad is such an unsatisfactory word. My mom coined a better one. Grief.
Once upon a time, I feared I was late for life. From all outward appearances, it seemed nearly everyone my age casually pirouetted into the next phase of life while I felt stuck in the child role, following my parents like a good little duckling. I hold my temples in sheer amazement beholding then and now. I could not see it then, but I wasn’t late at all. I trusted in this despite not feeling the weight of its truth, and now I see. I needed them.
Do not misunderstand, I will always need my family. Their absence leaves bullet holes in my heart that ache with crippling pain. But in this case, my dependence on them walked me through the hardest season of my life to date. I honestly do not believe I would have been glued back together correctly otherwise, if at all.
Praise God for the not yet. I kept asking, and He kept whispering Not yet. I kept crying and He implored me Not yet. I trusted Him and fell face-first down unforeseen depths into Wonderland. But not Alice’s. I never lost sight of my shining White Rabbit. And He illuminated the reality of what healing meant. With every small step I took out into the world, I tripped over a great root, the mangled kind that protrudes out of the ground and steadily grows larger until I found myself facing a massive tree. Barren yet very much alive and in season, its empty branches converged into a bulging trunk slumped off its stump, seemingly unable to uphold the weight of its own girth.
The White Rabbit turned to me. Uproot it.
How? I trembled breathless. He began to dig, and my sword became a gardening spade.
Root by root, the naked tendrils we unearthed flopped to the ground beside us. The tree fought back. The ground beneath my feet began to sink. My mother held my hair and rubbed my back as I dry-heaved a dread I couldn’t name or explain. My father carried me up the stairs to my room after a particularly bad episode. Step by step. One foot in front of the other every single day. Root by root. The next right thing. My spade sliced another rotting root. Medication felt like magic, bringing stability to my weakened endurance. Another root, this one bigger than the others. The swollen trunk loomed nearer, and I realized this massive, sinister thing was just a bunch of small, tangled knots, unlike the massive, carrot-like one I had imagined. Uprooting it would take time, endurance, and patience, but it was well within my ability, more than the ominous figure in front of me made it seem. But I was running out of stamina, fast.
Sick and exhausted, I climbed in the car with my parents and arrived at our church right as service ended. The rest of my family met us at the front of the sanctuary with our pastor, who is very dear to me and whom I hold in high regard. Together we prayed. Together they pulled me out of the siphoning earth. They used their own spades and uprooted more tendrils, enough to weaken the tree. And the ground stopped sinking. I returned home in incredible relief. A great weight had lifted from my shoulders. I rested and regained my strength.
To this day, I continue my journey through Wonderland, the White Rabbit as my guide. For the first time, I notice...It's dying. The great tree is dying. Its bulbous trunk looks cracked and dry, the branches above creak loudly with every small breeze. Two years later, the ground remains as it was. It has not tried to swallow me since. My counselor and I continue digging up roots together, but more as wizened gardeners with an undertaking rather than a desperate prisoner hacking her way towards freedom.
The tree still stands, even now. Will it attempt one last bid to grow once more? I do not know. This thought haunted my decision to leave. What if it tries again and I’m alone? But has He ever let me fall alone? I love my church and make a point to involve myself in areas of strength as often as I am able. This usually looks like serving coffee for guests on Sunday mornings. I apply myself to my small group every week. This looks like asking questions, listening, thinking, sharing, and encouraging. I meet with my sisters every other week and my parents… okay I visit them more often. I will never fall alone because I surround myself with people, good people, who are strong and full of life. We struggle together.
Herein lies the kicker—it takes caring to be cared for. Be kind. Listen. Look for joy. Pursue growth. Care. Always. Elevating others’ circumstances to be on par with my own not only diminishes the illusion of power given off by my own trees but draws people into relationship. I do not possess countless friends; I have countless acquaintances who soak in my kindness, but not friends. I hand pick those because choosing wisely matters for reasons I hope by now are obvious. But I immerse myself in the crowds to find them. And we did. We found each other. Some are old with great wisdom and experience to share; others are young and clueless with questions and good intensions. Again I look back over my life and sigh Thank God for the ‘Not Yet.’
You Have My Spade,
Olivia
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