Look up, my darling, look up.

When I hear Him, this space I’m in, at this plain wooden table, this window with the cobwebs at the corner of the metal screen, this soft rumble of washing machine, this smell of wet dog near my feet, I study the room, looking for clues for what is different.

All is different? No, all is the same.

As we age, do we grow more resilient—and then appreciative of life with all of its goodness and strife? Or do we grow more exhausted, the longing for heaven intensifying each day? Aging messes with one’s identity, for sure.

Who am I now? Who was I then? Given the truth of who I am, I can only explore through my distorted self; how do my age, life experiences, and wisdom affect my interpretation of my worth?

The three of us are up in the mountains, cedars and redwoods reaching toward warm October sky. The path we walk is wide enough for Mugsy, who, on her leash, finds every rustle in the shrubs an irresistible invitation to explore. We make our way to the lake, a wide expanse of deep blue and teal sparkling with ripples across its otherwise smooth surface, and walk out onto the dock, intent on getting as close as we can to the cold water without plunging in.

It was a delicious four-hour drive to our friend’s cabin, talking about family and makeup and wallpaper and God. I love her dearly, the friend who loves me and moved away and still comes to visit often. Each time we are together, people ask if we are sisters and we love it—leaning in close, hip to hip, head to head, and smiling ear to ear. I am most myself—the child He draws out and the woman He loves—with her…