time, age, what have you.

Just some thoughts on this Monday. Actually, the word “thoughts” is generous. These are really just ramblings with no clear conclusion or moral. And yet, it felt good for me to write them down, so I decided it may also feel good (or deeply vulnerable) to share them.

flower buds.jpg


I recently received a work email that contained the date of every staff meeting for the remainder of 2017. Trying to be a more organized version of myself, I began adding each date to my calendar, one month at a time, until I got to September—and my stomach dropped. Why? I think I suddenly remembered the amount of change that happened in my life from March of 2016 to September of 2016, and that caused my head to spin a bit. My whole world looked different over the course of those 6 months. And I suppose there is a fear of that happening again. I’m very comfortable in my current world. Who may be in…or out…of my life 6 months from now? What will be different? Or, maybe even more scary, what will be the same?


I’ve always been a big proponent that aging is a good, good thing. After all, if you’re not aging, you’re dead. But the strangest thing happened the other day. I was at dinner with a group of friends of various ages. One guy was joking that he could never remember how old he is, and when he finally told the table his age I was surprised to learn I was quite a bit older than him. Now I know that age is just a number, but for whatever reason, I suddenly felt a little self-conscious of my 27-year-old self. The guy then began to guess the ages of our friends around the table. But when he got to me, he just stated my age…incorrectly, might I add. He was only off by a year (he thought I was 26), but still, did I correct him? No. What is it about aging that produces shame? I’m not even old! And still, I felt the need to be younger.


Spring has never been my favorite season. Growing up in San Antonio, it felt like a wanna-be Summer and attending school in Nebraska, it felt like a wanna-be Winter. (I guess the same could be said for Fall, but for whatever reason, I have no qualms with that time of year.) But the other day while on a run, I noticed the green buds on the trees and felt such delight—and not just in the beauty of the new, pretty leaves, but in the fact that Spring once again did come. It’s something we humans have no control over, yet we can trust that year after year plants will produce new growth.

Winter won’t last forever. Spring will come.

I know, that sounds elementary. But somehow it felt profound this year. I can trust God with the little on-goings of my life because He’s the same God who allows Spring to come each year. Surely the God who is in charge of the seasons—of the redemption of fruitless plants after the cold and harsh winter months—will oversee the seasons of my life as well.

Ok, I lied. That last tiny essay had a bit of a moral/conclusion. But we’ll just label the first two under “Kat’s life is more of a mess than her Instagrams lead you to believe.” Still, I hope something resonated with you. And if it did, I’d love to hear about it.

Currently listening to “I Shall Not Want” by Audrey Assad

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