Feeling Old

I’m feeling old lately. And it’s not just because my thirtieth birthday has been gradually marching toward me, one day at a time, with only two short weeks left until a dizzying day of collision. That is a big enough reality check of its own. A new decade. Goodbye to my 20’s.

For much of this year, the thought has left me with a pinch in my stomach, an air void in my lungs. Am I really old enough to be thirty? Is this what life feels like after three decades of completion? Shouldn’t I be more wise, more successful, more knowledgeable, more in shape, more financially secure, more [insert adjective here]? Shouldn’t I be more than I am?

It doesn’t help that I am constantly surrounded by a bunch of blonde, vivacious, leggy things, just barely adjusting to the reality of post-college life. These young creatures are my main pool of friends here in our tiny Honduran town, ranging from 19 to 23 years of age. This has been in stark contrast to my New York friends, of whom I always seemed to be the youngest. But this new crew has been a daily reminder of how much energy and idealism and spontaneity I have forfeited over the last ten years. For example, these days I like, even prefer, to stay home and read or watch a movie. I don’t enjoy drinking for the sake of drinking. I don’t notice cute guys around every corner (unless it’s my Lenster, or George Clooney, and I have yet to see George walk through the streets of La Unión. On another note, these girls barely even know who George is!). I am no longer covered by my parents’ health insurance (or any health insurance for that matter). I don’t own a single neon belly shirt or any brightly patterned stretchy jeans. I guess I have grown up.

There have been many days this year when I struggled with wanting to be youthful and cool, so as to be more relevant to my friends here and also to my students. Frankly, it was exhausting. And it wasn’t a true reflection of me, the person I am today, as opposed to the person I was in, say, 2005. I have slowly come to the realization that I actually like being my age. Twenty-nine going on thirty comes with its share of advantages. My last decade of life has been filled with adventures and mistakes and learning and unlearning, and I gratefully get the sense that I might just be a better person now than I was straight out of college.  Still a broken person, but more aware of my brokenness, and – on good days – better able to learn from it and live in spite of it, breathing in Grace.

When I think through the span of a life filled with eighty or ninety years, it almost blows me away. All the memories, all the maturity, all the living. In comparison, thirty years seems trivial. I still have a long way to go in understanding myself, in loving people well, in fully recognizing my brokenness and then fully resting in Grace.

And so, with a strange sense of peace, I am looking forward to giving Thirty a big ol’ hug.

I will leave you with this, from the writer of Ecclesiastes: “You who are young, be happy while you are young, and let your hearts give you joy in the days of your youth. Follow the ways of your heart and whatever your eyes see, but know that for all these things God will bring you into judgment. So then, banish anxiety from your heart and cast off the troubles of your body, for youth and vigor are meaningless.” 

Here’s to replacing the anxiety in our hearts with joy. Here’s to another year of living and learning. Happy birthday, Me. And a happy birthday to you, too.

Brushes with Death

Since moving to Honduras, I am quite sure that my chances of a premature death have at least quadrupled. There are the “normal,” expected hazards that are associated with life here: perilous mountain roads, gangsta drug traffickers, students angry at their latest test grade, and so on. But lately it seems like my brushes with death have been too frequent and, well, somewhat odd.

Take our recent trip to the tropical island of Roatán. We decided to trade in a relaxing spring break for something a bit more strenuous: a scuba certification course. After a harrowing first day of diving in stormy conditions, our second day of diving proved to be even more eventful. After descending for Dive #2, I had some intense ear pain and had to return to the surface. Our dive instructor told me to sit the rest of the dive out and told me I’d be fine swimming back to shore by myself. Then he disappeared, leaving me to battle two separate sets of breaking waves on my way to shore. Let’s just say that this particular experience ended up with me being thrust upon the top of the reef again and again in circles. I couldn’t stand, I couldn’t swim, my weight belt fell off, and I was all alone, at the whim of the ocean’s currents. My two thoughts were: 1) all this blood from my scrapes and cuts is going to attract sharks, and 2) I am probably going to be blown to smithereens if my oxygen tank continues to get smashed against the coral reef. So I did the only logical thing anyone would do at a time like this: I started bawling. And then yelling for help, although nobody was in sight. Somehow, miraculously, I did actually make it to shore on my own. But only after rolling on a sea urchin. I still have a scar on my ankle from said sea urchin. But I survived.

And another brush with death… Last week some of us American teachers decided to set off some fireworks in town. This is a very common occurrence in our town, or so we thought. Unfortunately, the house nearby where we were launching the fireworks mistook the explosions for an attack, and they started yelling and shooting at us. Um, yeah. How were we to know that this very family had been attacked three years ago by a Mexican gang and two of their children were kidnapped for ransom? Luckily, nobody was hurt. And another valuable lesson has been learned: choose your fireworks locations very carefully.

Also last week one of the doctors (who was 29 years old, like me!) at the clinic across the street from our school died of a mysterious illness. Turns out her mysterious illness was confirmed as dengue fever, which has since put our town on full alert. We even had to fumigate our school to kill off as many mosquitoes as possible. Although I am not yet smothering myself with Off, as advised by certain relatives, I am now very aware any time I get a bug bite. Stupid dengue.

Here’s another one. Earlier this week, an eight-year-old student happened to find the school gun in our library, along with the gun’s bullets. And he decided to play with them. Like a toy. The gun. And the bullets. Since when do we have a school gun?! And who thought it would be a great idea to hide it in the library where a third grader can find it?! Thankfully, nobody was hurt before the gun was apprehended.

And finally, this morning while riding our motorcycle to school, one of our seventh grade students almost collided with us when he pulled onto the main road from a side street without even looking.

So do you see what I mean? Is it just me, or are Death and all his friends messing with me lately? Crazy stuff happening in Hondurasland.

I am again reminded of how quickly life changes, passes, ends. And I am grateful for the gift of being alive, of taking great big gulps of air, of feeling the sun warm on my face. Now that I have a fresh perspective on life, I am hoping that my near-encounters with death will taper off… Cheers to another day of livin’ the dream!