day 10. (be it late.)

I asked my nurse how old she was. I had a guess: 24. She is 26. And she is one of the sweetest girls I have ever met, seriously.

Looking around the hospital floor, there are old and new faces. There are some nurses who were there when I was 13, and then again at 18, and now back again.

Conversation.

nurse: “Jenna, how old are you now?”
me: “23, I’m getting old!” (I joke.)
later.
nurse: “It dawned on me last time you were here getting treatment, was 23, just starting.” wow.

That freaks me out. Does that freak you out? I can sometimes see it, I feel. Like, this is surreal indeed. At 23, she was just starting, laying down the foundation of her new career, her job, her life. And how here she is, she has “made it.” And where am I now at 23? I am also “supposed” to be starting, laying own the foundation of my career, getting married, starting adult life.

Did she in that moment just do what I did? Rewind time, reverse back to her 23 self and place herself in the hospital bed that I am now in? I’ll admit it: I did. And I envisioned for a brief moment the roles flipped: her the patient, I the nurse. Where would she be now if our roles were reversed? Not that I don’t ever wish this upon anyone but I swear I saw that moment in her eyes too, the reversal, the thought of “What would I have done at 23, at that age, going through this?” be it even a second of thought.

I did not envision at all my life this way at 23, but I know I am right where I am supposed to be. I am tired of fighting/denying reality, and in fact comparing my life to others only makes it worse, depressing. The vial of Comparison is worse than any chemotherapy poison I could think of. Swallow it, and it stays, lingering onto your mind, thoughts of “you should have this by now” and “everyone else is getting engaged/married” and “you will never get there” are the worse drug-thoughts you could ever have slip and steep.

I have no idea exactly where I am at or where I am going, and sometimes I am unsure if it is ever back to “adult” or “real” life. I might not, and that should be a reasonable and logical thought. Sometimes though I really take a hold of those thoughts and want to wrangle them desperately. Cut it out, oh Jacob, oh Israel! Why do you torture yourself with wanting to know your destiny? It isn’t mine to give or understand but to know and understand whose I am. That is consistent, consistent. Always the same and never changing, despite my cirmcumstances, be it in the career world or a cancer floor.

I am His. I am His.
And this is where He wants to be for a moment, for a season.

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