Making God Laugh (or, I'm Moving Home)

Anne Lamott once said, “If you want to make God laugh, tell her your plans.”

If this is true, and I don’t doubt that it is, I’ve been giving all of heaven a good laugh lately.

When I came back to school for the spring semester, I had a capital-P Plan. I knew exactly what this year was going to entail: the end of my junior year, a summer internship, and the beginning of my senior year. The Plan was Nashville, with just a few weeks at home here and there. I was growing up and becoming independent and trying to establish a life for myself in a city that stole my heart.

And those are good things . . . very good things.

But a few weeks ago, The Plan changed.

I’ve written before about some of my chronic health issues. The truth of the matter is that right now, my body isn’t functioning like it should. I have four diagnoses in hand to help me understand what’s happening inside of me, but the picture isn’t complete. I’m not responding to treatment the way I’d like to be, and I still have several unexplained issues. And the stress that comes along with college makes managing my health difficult. I really don’t have time to rest and heal, let alone figure out what’s going on. So I’m changing the plan.

This weekend, I’m moving home.

The good news is that I don’t have to drop out of school to be able to do this. My professors and other faculty members have gone above and beyond to work with me as I make this transition. I’ll finish this semester’s classes from home and spend the summer resting. I plan to return to Nashville in the fall, hopefully in a much healthier state.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned this month, though, it’s that I can’t trust The Plan. So I’m taking this one step at a time. This week I’m saying goodbye and packing my things and moving home. Next week I’ll turn twenty, hang out with my family, and start a round of doctor’s appointments to get to the bottom of whatever’s going on. I don’t know what will be next beyond that.

I do know, though, that I will be resting. 2015 is supposed to be a year of mending. This isn’t what I had in mind when I picked that word, but it’s what it needs to be right now.

After all, sometimes things need to die before they can live again.  

So I am dying. Like the ground in winter, I’m choosing a season of inactivity in order to rebuild the life necessary for spring. Death is hard, but it’s the only path I know to resurrection. I am trusting that there’s life—more life than I’ve known before—on the other side.