Just imagine me at about six years old, lower lip sticking out so far I’m about to trip on it, eyes narrowed, arms folded across my chest.
That’s right, I’m arguing with God. Again. Actually, it’s the same old argument, but this time He’s quite insistent, and isn’t taking “don’wanna!” for an answer.
And it’s for no good reason other than plain ol’ fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of change, fear that I really did waste the last five years of my life doing ‘the wrong thing’. Fear that this is going to change how people think about me. Fear I won’t do it right. Fear that I’m not the right person, that I might have gotten the message wrong.
Fear of what my mother is going to say. Oy.
I live in a city bisected by two major rivers. I keep looking over the bridges when I cross them, keeping an eye out for whales.