You have not missed the boat of your life.

{image: Nataliia Anisimova, 123RF Stock Photo}

{image: Nataliia Anisimova, 123RF Stock Photo}

You know that moment when, right in the middle of your normal-life day (whatever that is), the other life you thought you’d have gut-punches the air right out of you?

It sort of sneaks in and shocks you silent. You thought that part was gone. You gave it up, or life took it. . . whatever the reason, it’s been gone a while and then it comes back.

That dream.

That longing.

That spouse.

That child.

That job.

That deeper purpose.

It comes back, complete with about a thousand feelings at once—loss, grief, relief, hope, fear, wonder. . . need.

Because we do need that, don’t we friends? To be reminded sometimes, even if it’s messy or inconvenient or scary, that there’s still more? That we haven’t missed the boat of our life.

A friend whispered to me the other night, as I wept from a tempest of hope/fear/wonder/grief: “Your story isn’t finished, Laurie.”

At nights when I wake, again, (God, may I formally register a complaint about the timing of these soul sessions?) and I feel like I’m drowning in what isn’t, I remind myself: My story isn’t finished.

In afternoons when my daughter’s mental illness throws my home into chaos and there’s not enough caffeine to hold me upright, I breathe in the words: My story isn’t finished.

In mornings, like today, when my 9 year old’s hard-earned award of perfect attendance at school  (she really really loves those award certificates!) gets snatched from her by the juggernaut that is her sister’s developmental challenges, I hold her with the words: Your story isn’t finished.

And then I call the school and let them know it wasn’t her fault and they say they’ll honor her heart, not her tardy slip. And I rejoice in that moment when not only do I say or breathe or offer the words, but I live them: our story isn’t finished.

And your story? It’s not finished either.

The dream may look different than you remember. The calling might tug you two degrees to the left of what you thought it would. The home may seem like maybe you got the wrong one by accident, but then you’re playing a board game and that wacky kid says something that resonates with the tune in your heart and you know—you know—it’s your home.

Or you look in the face of the one who should be your One, and he’s not—it doesn’t feel like he sees you or hears you or gets you—and your heart begins to look for closeness. And maybe you even find it one day at lunch with another, and you scream at God and wonder how you ended up with the wrong marriage. Until you see the picture of the too-young him and you hanging on the wall one day and something somewhere says it, small and clear: Your story is not finished. Neither is his.

So you gather up the pieces of your heart, grab the hand of a friend who can listen to the pieces and speak the truth and walk alongside you in the dark for a little while.

And you wait, friend.

You wait and trust that you really didn’t miss it.

You have not missed the boat of your life. It’s right outside your door. Waiting for you to step in, show up, believe that yes, there is more. And more isn’t always different. Sometimes more is this, now, right here. And as we learn to live that more, God promises to lead us on to even more-er.

“For to the one who has, more will be given, and she will have an abundance. . .” (Matthew 13:12, ESV).

Right here with you in the longing, the choosing, the showing up,

Laurie

P.S. If you or someone you know is longing for more in family, marriage or parenting a child with disability, my new book is on sale for Kindle this week for a price that’s easy to grab and share with others — $0.99 today through 2/26, $1.99 from 2/27-3/1. If you don’t have a Kindle, don’t let that keep you from this gift! There is a free Kindle app for smartphones and a free e-reader for computers. You’re welcome. :)

P.P.S. If it’s time to show up for your more-life and you need a little help (or a gentle push), please message me to find out about coaching: Laurie (at) LaurieWallin (dot) com.