Each Life Is Book-Worthy; It’s Just The Way It Is Written

Each Life Is Book-Worthy; It’s Just The Way It Is Written

My best friend, Misty, came to visit this week. The hour before she had to leave, my husband watched the girls so we could take a walk around our land. We put our hats and coats on in the breezeway, and Misty crouched, looking at a sepia-toned photograph collage, which depicted our trip to the United Kingdom six springs ago.

“Look at us!” she said, tracing a finger over our smiling faces. “We were so pretty!”

Laughing, I shoved her arm. “Don’t say it like that!” But I crouched, too, and could see what she meant: we were young in a way not quantified by years. We were young and carefree, sitting in the bottom of a punt on a slow brown river in Cambridge.

“It’s that roaming look,” she said. “That’s what we had.”

We stood and walked outside. The trees were bare, the sky an undisturbed gray. We paused before our creek and then followed the path I’ve made by walking the same trail for the past seven months.

“Each life is book-worthy,” I declared. “It’s just the way it’s written.”

There have been moments, over the past six years, that would never make it into a novel: sleepless nights tending fussy babies, a silly fight with my husband because he chopped down a few trees in our woods without discussing it with me first, housebound days when my extroverted self is so excited to see another adult that I about paw my husband like a dog before he even gets in the door.

But amid the monotony is where the magic happens.

After Misty left, I read a portion of my old journals. I both smiled and winced while pouring over the story of my life. Only twelve years have passed since I was eighteen, and yet I have already forgotten the angst surrounding so much uncertainty.

But there, nearly hidden in the paragraphs expounding upon the “Great Questions,” I discovered a nugget of gold that was oddly prophetic:

“I love to travel and drink in the beauty of the culture and the people who inhabit that culture. I love to embark on journeys where the destination remains unknown, but could I do that forever? I also want to stir a savory sauce and chop herbs and bake and garden and wear overalls while blooming as my garden blooms. I want my husband to take my swollen belly in his hands and kiss it and weep with the sheer joy that we are together, and that together, we have created this miracle, this beauty, which would surpass our own. I want him to love me. I want to provide for each other, offering protection and support when this world rages. I want him to nurture our little family and lead us in a way I know he is capable of.”

And this, twelve years later, is exactly what I’m doing: I cook and bake and garden, wearing overalls because they don’t pinch my pregnant belly as it “blooms.” My husband loves me, as I love him, and we have stood together, offering protection and support as this world rages.

The revelation that I am living the life I had imagined brought tears of gratitude to my eyes. Yes, each life is book-worthy; it’s all in the way it is written.

How is your life book-worthy? Please take a moment to share!