getting wrinkles.

It’s a slightly overcast Sunday morning in San Diego. I have a fruit bowl, a half-full coffee pot, a newspaper on the front lawn, automatic sprinklers, and a load of laundry that’s spinning endlessly in the garage. I have a church service in two hours and a to-do list of emails and writing projects that will consume the majority of my afternoon. I have a stack of bills beside a lengthening grocery list and a refrigerator with magnets. I have a you’re-almost-grown-up sort of life.

When does one grow up and how does it happen and why does no one tell you that one day out of the blue you’ll be sitting on a stool in the island of your kitchen wearing slippers and a robe after you just got out of the shower as you sit drinking black coffee and thumbing through the newspaper as though it was the only thing you wanted to do at that point in time?

I suppose these are the evolutions of youth that come earlier for some and later for others. I’m 22. I suppose that’s par for the course. Maybe. But who really knows.

When I was 17, I sent my grandfather a short story and he sent me back a letter saying, “You may write professionally or for your own pleasure, but whatever you do, keep writing. Don’t neglect the gift.”

Just this past week, a family in Idaho sold everything they had–yes, everything–and donated the proceeds to Invisible Children. They’re moving into a small, one-bedroom apartment  so they can donate $600 a month to my company instead of having a nicer place to live. I have payments for the next four years on a brand new car and I also just bought a new TV, desk, and GPS. Ughhh.

I don’t want this to be about guilt. But I do want to be a good steward of what I’ve been given. Conviction might be one of those necessary evils in life that crawls up out of nowhere to say, “Yes, you’re drinking your coffee and doing laundry and paying bills. Maybe it’s time to grow up. Maybe it’s time to show some dedication in lieu of youthful flippancy.”

I don’t want to grow into a boring life where all I’m doing all the time is work and paying bills and pinching pennies, but there has to be that point I suppose where you stop doing everything you want to do and buckle down. Where you stop thinking Dad can help out in case you spend too much one month.  Most of you have probably already discovered this. I’m admittedly a late bloomer, but at least I’m blooming.