Speed walking to my car , I unconsciously ran my hand over my hair in an attempt to stuff the unruly pieces back into my thinning ponytail . “ Stop fidgeting ,” the floor director would always tell me on the set of The 700 Club . I couldn ’ t help it . It was something I did when I was anxious .
“ Are you excited ?” I heard a voice behind me yell , clearly attempting to get my attention .
“ Your birthday ! It ’ s coming up in a couple of weeks , right ?!” My friend was trotting in her heels to catch up with me as I was hurrying to get into my car .
“ Wanna do something to celebrate ?” she asked enthusiasti- cally while trying to catch her breath .
“ No , not really ,” I said , trying to mask any sign that my heart was dropping at the very mention of my upcoming birthday . “ I mean , it ’ s just another day , no big deal ,” I responded with a half smile .
As I turned the key to unlock my car door I stared over at my son , widening my eyes a bit so he could catch my signal — the signal that nine times out of ten he missed . So I tried the ventriloquist routine to reinforce the message by mumbling , “ Hurry up and get in the car .”
I was turning forty-four years old . Middle-aged , according to my twelveyear-old son . “ I ’ m not middle-aged . I ’ m still young and hot , right ?” I had teased him a couple of weeks ago as he watched me place a batch of brownies into the oven .
Not amused , he ’ d looked meaningfully at me as I stood in the kitchen with my oversized sweat pants and a T-shirt exhibiting a wonderful array of splatters and drips from the brownie mix I was licking off the big mixing spoon .
When was the last time I washed that shirt ? I thought as I pulled out of the church parking lot .
Forty-four , I repeated in my head . This was not what the forties are supposed to look like . Your forties are when you finally get into the groove of life , when you feel more settled and more stable in all your roles . You know who you are and why you ’ re here , right ? But nothing could be farther from the truth , I thought , as I drove down the winding road toward my house .
Here I was , a forty-something-yearold unemployed , divorced – widowed single mom fighting the battle of the bulge and living off her son ’ s college savings . I had no clue who I was anymore and was struggling to make sense of it all . In fact , any day now I was expecting someone to ring my doorbell and shout , “ Smile ! You ’ re on Candid Camera .”
Still , I had committed to trusting God in this process of my life ; I was just trying to figure out what that really meant . My days were spent studying the Bible and crying out to God , but rather than feeling all warm and fuzzy , I was feeling like my life was in the eye of the storm .
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