I was fifteen minutes late to my very first class of senior year. Got lost on the way to the Fine Arts building (how long have I been going to this school?). Locked the keys, along with all my textbooks, in the car. Tripped over my own feet on the way to the dining common.

But this morning, when I locked the keys  in my car, I neither laughed nor cried.

Funny how mature I thought I was at eighteen. I thought I knew how to handle anything that could happen.

Some four years and several unexpected life-lessons later, though, I’m rethinking my assumptions. Two weeks of senior year, and I’ve learned that I’m not only capable of dissolving into tears during a lecture on Kate Chopin, but also rather likely, apparently, to do so.

Strange, too, how my hands start shaking at odd times; choir rehearsal takes on a new flavor when you can’t hold the music still enough to tell an E flat from an A.  I’ve dealt with so much before now. Dealing with this should be easier.

I’m supposed to be confident. Capable. Secure.

But what good is confidence if you know you’re doing the right thing and it still feels like an emotional knife, twisting? Suddenly my capability doesn’t matter. It’s long gone.

What does strength even mean when you’re at the end of yourself, when trusting God goes from theory to application and you find it’s much harder than you ever thought?

Praise God, this is a lesson I really need to learn.


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