And I think it’s true. The older I get, the more I want to be me.
No false pretenses or fancy facades.
God-made, but imperfect.
Broken, but made whole through Christ.
No masks. No falsehoods. No pretending. Just … real. I want to bloom right where I’m planted, like a sunny petal against the cerulean sky — with enough gaps so that God’s light can shine through.
I want to feel more comfortable in my own skin,
stand for who I am,
and who God made me to be — wrinkles and all.
I want to live free.
I’m 39 years old. (Which I used to think sounded old.) I’m nearly 40. (Which they say is over the hill.) On the downside of a hill, there’s no slowing down. Maybe that means we can pick up a bit of steam for the marvelously wild journey home, and who doesn’t love the way it feels with the wind blowing back our hair?
When I was 22, I would have thought a 40-year-old me had one foot in the grave. But maybe we could see it as having one foot in Heaven instead?
And while I’m still here — for how many ever days He sees fit — I want to bloom for my Maker. And I want my life to do more and more of this one thing: magnify His great name.
I want to live my life seeking
on God’s earth
for God’s glory and
God’s great name.