Clay

Isaiah 64:8
New International Version (NIV)

 8 Yet you, LORD, are our Father. 
  
 We are the clay, you are the potter; 
we are all the work of your hand.

I guess you could say I am a late bloomer. It took long years for me to know what I wanted to do, what I needed to do, what I should do, what I should be. Everyone else around me seemed to just know; a doctor, a teacher, a soldier, a nurse, everyone seemed to know what they wanted to be, and I did not. I never had that defining, sparkling moment, of "this is what I should be, what I am."

The lack of knowing fueled my wanderlust and my wanderlust fueled my lack of knowing, they spun around each other, feeding each other, and I would wander off somewhere for awhile, come back home, wander off again. I had no roots, no sense of self, no idea who was looking back at me in the mirror. And in my meandering, gypsy-style quest to find myself, I've had my heart broke, been drug through the mud, been alone, been in the darkest pits and blackest depths.

It took me ages and ages to realize… I was being formed in those moments. I was being made, even as I searched for my self. The people I found along the way, in what seemed like endless travels, the pain, the struggles, each was forming me. Each life that has brushed against mine, merged with mine, tinted my life in some nameless shade, has changed me, helped define me.

My life was not defined until the past few years, until the emotional chaos that is deployment, until the mystery and miracle of carrying a child, and now, as I face another great, great challenge. I am drawing on the strength, courage, and determination that saw me through the great struggles, the dark days, of not knowing who I am.

If it was not for the past, I would have wilted in the face of a merciless deployment. If not for my child, I would not respect the miracle of life. If not for both, I would not have the strength to celebrate life, even as sickness takes it from one of the people I hold nearest and dearest.

I was being made, being molded, all those long years of struggle, to the wife who survived deployment, to the mother who rocks a sleepless child to sleep, to the sister who is letting go, day by day.