42 seems like an awful number, when you put it in print.
Particularly when you think of 42 in context of age.
- 42 means I’m no longer entering my 40’s. By 42 I am firmly planted in my 40’s.
- 42 means I’m now twice as old as my mom was when she had me.
- 42 means I probably should put on the mantle of grown-up – with all of the associated responsibilities.
Indeed. 42 carries a lot of significance.
Yet as I look at 42 fair-and-square in the mirror today, it occurs to me that:
- 42 means I’ve lived more than half of my lifetime away from my hometown. (For a bit of fun: In 42 years, I’ve lived in 3 countries, 5 states and 17 different apartments/houses)
- 42 means I’ve finally gained some wisdom worth sharing and enough gravitas that others ask me for it.
- 42 means I’ve experienced the unbridled joy and unbelievable heartaches of life and have learned to embrace both.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I see the girl who loves to go, explore and experience, lurking behind the quiet sadness of the woman who knows that sometimes hopes and dreams don’t work out quite the way you expect them to.
And that’s ok.
42 isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of the journey to 43, with all of the who-can-imagine-what that God has in store along the way.