All the impossible things that have brought me to this moment.
All the impossible things that have brought me to this day.
Alice says that sometimes she believes six impossible things before breakfast. I would have believed none of these.
It started when my best friend Chaz said to me, on July 10, 2017, that he wished I could start grad school in the spring. Like, this spring.
And I stopped crying long enough for it to occur to me that it had never occurred to me before.
And the wheels began to turn, like clockwork. They sloughed off the cobwebs and the gears began to creak and something inside me came back to life. The dust-choked shriveled-up-ness coughed and breathed and some warm air came whooshing back, like the break of spring, like spring cleaning in the midst of summer.
But it was only a breath.
My body breathed deep and slow.
The gears were rusty. They were slow to come back.
But come back they did.
They remembered who they were.
It was September when I told my mom and dad about it, though they had guessed. Parents always do, don't they? And I love mine.
I've written this before: strange that spring should be the time of my undoing, and that it would be in autumn, in the time when creation dies that it may come back to life, that my own rejuvenation, reanimation would come.
It's like I was half a year off from my seasons. I was in Southern Hemisphere time! Spring has come to me in the midst of January. I am a bud exploding out of snow-covered, frosted ground.
All the impossible things that brought me to this day.
Because, you see, it's my first day of grad school.
Welcome to the first day of the thing you've wanted for five and a half years.
"Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life" sounds a little extreme, but isn't it right? Isn't it true that every day, every choice we make, every step we take forward along with Jesus, opens up a little bit of the next part of the path? And the next, and the next, and the next. Each step we see a little more of the cobblestone path ahead of us. The light travels with us, like a spotlight on a stage.
Every day carries us forward into the next part of the life on earth we have been given.
So when I say, Sara, welcome to the first day of the rest of your life, I'm not overexaggerating.
I don't know where I will be tomorrow, or at the end of my Master's, or any of it, but I do know that the place I will be will come about because I went to school today.
And the days and weeks after that.
Because I opened my mouth today to sing.
The impossible things. Getting into grad school. Finding someone to take over my lease. The actual process of moving back to my hometown for a few weeks. Finding a place to live here in Greensboro, and a job. And then moving to North Carolina. Starting my new job here.
Each of them have been impossible and each of these have seemed ridiculously simple.
Like, how could it possibly be that simple?
Because I have waited. And waited. Because I am afraid of doing things wrong, so I wait until I have all the information until I act -- like my father before me, and his father before him. I come from a long line of wait-and-see-ers.
And in the waiting, which is partly trust and partly fear, both cold and warm, Jesus has opened -- something. A hole in the hill I did not see before, one that would bring me to the other side.
The short answer of "How could it possibly be that simple?" is that my Jesus has made it so. Every valley shall be exalted for Him, and He leaves it so that I may follow behind.
He has smoothed and paved the way for me.
And now, here I am.
It's my first day of grad school, don't you know.
All the impossible things that have brought me to this day --
they were no match for His gentle, melting heat.
Happy first day of school, babe.
You've waited a long time for this.