I feel like my younger self wanting to recycle the convenience of feeling good for the moment. Who gave time permission to make me 27?
I once looked to the numerical figures rounding up to 30 and decided that was too far from where I was and who I’d want to be before I grew up. But time hit and I fell. Last year was a statement that I’d die before not getting up on my own two feet.
I didn’t want help- if this was the curse of man, I wanted the toil to whip its cords on me to get me moving. So I sweated and strained my neck by constantly looking up the ladder. Is there anyone coming down, so I can move up? Yet even in my stubbornness, it was the grace of God that prevented me from climbing with only the stability of a right angle.
Hit me hard, 27. Six weeks have passed, and is that all you’ve got? I dare you to punch harder because this soul is recklessly trecking a new path towards true freedom- there is no song that’ll possess me away from the praises that lift up His heavenly kingdom. If I don’t listen the lyrics of those I hurt, you win. If I don’t apologize and want to try better to the ones I love, you win. If I don’t enjoy what I’m privileged with, you win. And you know what? You don’t stand a chance.
And as the bell rings, I’ll be packed with books flipping through the memories of high school hallways, and collegiate laughter. I’m an adult of the number 27, and its course stabs like thorn.
27 is the trail to a fossa of gradual decline of form and movement- anatomy becomes a metaphor for youth, and creativity came with the seasons. I now plant my life in the foramen of God’s glory, hiding in nothing because there is reason to be planted in His awe and wonder.
If 26 was the image of an immigrant man washed ashore on a beating afternoon summer sun then I imagine 27 can be its brother’s keeper.