Starting an unwanted ‘New Chapter’
When I first started writing for CityLife a little more than three years ago, I was asked to carefully consider what I’d like to name my monthly column. At the time, I was a newlywed who’d just celebrated my first year of marriage. I wasn’t yet a mother, but I hoped having children would soon be a part of my story to tell.
My life was blossoming. My world was moving more rapidly than I could get my words in print, so we landed on the name “New Chapter.” As the years have unfolded, and I’ve been privileged to share my journey with this community of readers, I’ve silently wondered if “New Chapter” would always fit my story. And even more so, if my words would have the ability to reach beyond this page and find you in your new chapter.
So many of you have already walked in my shoes. You look back fondly with me at your past life as a newlywed and the births of your children. Others of you share your journey with me in your day-to-day life as a busy mom. And some of you haven’t crossed these milestones just yet.
Maybe I’ve never fully realized until now that each new day, each season in life, is a new chapter in its own rite. That new chapters never stop coming our way. And maybe, just maybe, if I’m doing a good job, there is a commonality that threads us all together on this page and meets us each in whatever chapter of life we find ourselves in.
I’m not an expert on anything.
You won’t find advice coming from me. Instead, I’ve always hoped to be a woman who’s willing to show you the mud on my boots and all that I’ve trudged through to find my way in the messes of life.
I always find myself in a new chapter, like it or not. We’re never allowed to sit still in this life for very long. We’re rarely allowed to feel comfortable. The fact that we can triumph knowing that to be true, captures the real beauty of the human spirit.
My own words printed on this page often hold my feet to the fire. When I doubt, my words and beliefs stare at me in black and white. My words simply and clear speak, “This is who you say you are. This is what you believe.”
I’ve never been so challenged by that until recently. I picked up my children from school, pulled in my driveway with my cell phone ringing, and I answered to hear my cousin say, “Sweetie, your daddy is gone.”
An ordinary day that changed my life forever. A new chapter that I didn’t want.
The February issue of CityLife had just been printed. There, in black and white, it felt like my words were reminding me of the strength of my spirit. A strength I didn’t feel I had at the moment. A gentle reminder that, “even in the midst of an otherwise dark place, there is always light.”
In the weeks that have passed since losing my dad, I’ve questioned why the thought of light had been heavy on my heart in the weeks leading up to his death. There are many instances – far too many to share – that have led to one grounding belief for me. Before each new chapter in my journey, there is a Creator who walks each step that lies ahead.
He knows what’s to come. And although he doesn’t make it go away, he lays the ground work to get me through and reminds me that I’m not walking alone.
As I’ve wrested with my grief, I’ve found great truth in author Paula D’Arcy’s words, “ … just because God wasn’t the God I had imagined or wanted (i.e., a God who prevented pain and tragedy), still God was there. … I had to meet God myself, in my own dark night.”
The next evening after my dad died, I sat in my living room with two of my dearest friends. We drew the blinds in my living room for privacy and sat together as they more or less force fed me a chicken salad sandwich and fruit.
I felt so insulated in my grief; holed up in my home trying to make it through the day.
My friend instructed me that someone had dropped something off at the front door, and I should go check. I opened my front door to see my porch was covered in candles, each one accompanied by a card filled with deep sympathy and the warmest prayers. I wasn’t alone in my grief.
It’s true. Even in the darkness, there is light. For each new chapter that comes our way, our muddy boots never walk alone.
