thirty-five.

I am 35 grateful years old today.

In January, I decided I was going to hike Table Rock Trail by myself on my birthday this year. I have hiked this trail many, many times in my lifetime, and it remains my favorite. It is beautiful, mighty, humbling, requires so much strength, leaves you breathless, and more.

Sadly, I didn’t get to do that today.

Instead, I am in bed recovering from an emergency appendectomy that resulted in complications, a 3-night hospital stay, holes all over my abdomen, new kinds of pain I haven’t felt before, and a 2-4 week recovery before life can resume as “normal.”

I wanted to climb a mountain for my birthday. But what I really wanted to do was choose the mountain I climbed for once. To choose how I suffered for just this one day.

I know many people think I’ve gone off the deep end in recent years with the things I have written and shared, and my response is two-fold and quite simple. First, “How could I not after all the heartache I have known?” And second, “Why is that such a bad thing?”

My 35th birthday aligning with Maundy Thursday this year feels quite appropriate. I used to try so hard to be “good;” perfection has never tempted me so much, but being a (the?) “good girl” has for as long as I can remember. When I think of Christ Himself kneeling down to wash the feet of those who overestimated their love for Him and underestimated His love for them, I can easily see myself among the faces of those who tried so hard to be “good” on their own, so eager to impress their master and friend, so desperate to live up to the call placed on their lives.

My 35th birthday aligning with Maundy Thursday feels quite holy, too, because Christ understands my sorrows and my pains in a way that no one else does (or even could, really), and He has never once silenced my tears, mocked my fears, or made light of the heaviness that I carry. Never once. Even when I am least deserving of love, He still washes my feet and offers me the most sacred communion: Himself.

When I was in the hospital, several of the nurses of asked a few different variations of this question: “Do you always smile when you are in pain?”

I’ve tried not to in recent years, to tell you the truth. I really, really have. My smile has changed through all of the trials I’ve walked, but it seems that smiling simply suits me, maybe that I was genuinely made to smile. A big thing that is different about my smile these days, though, is that I no longer use it as a tool of deception or distraction. I never wanted to lose my smile; I just hated how I used and abused it for so long, how I was known and loved for so long because how well I hid the darkest, saddest parts of me.

Pain has both hurt me and healed me. It has turned my smile true, real, honest along the way, too.
I used to smile to keep people away, to keep people from knowing the truth.

Now I smile bearing the spirit of true hospitality, especially to those who may feel like who I used to; sometimes a simple smile can be the thing that breaks through the cracks and lets the light in.

I am 35 grateful years old today.

I have climbed a lot of mountains in my rather short lifetime, and I know that there will be more to climb. I’ll climb as many as I can for as long as I can though, and I’ll carry wisdom, not resentment, from all the ones that have come before.

Mountains aren’t always fun to hike or live through in the moment, but they can work wonders on (and in) the heart in the long run.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. “Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted. “Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall receive mercy. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. “Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God.”
Matthew‬ ‭5‬:‭3‬-‭9‬