20s

Dear 20s (I pondered titling this "The Roaring 20s", but thought better of it ... though it would seem appropriate),

I hear that you're supposed to be the best years of my life. 

But I think that's a lie.

Maybe.

Sure, you have this allure of excitement and adventure - and an appearance of freedom, opportunity, and little responsibility.  I could see how 30s or the 40s might see you as this - and perhaps even the teens, but let's get some things straight:

Adventure is sometimes merely a positive interpretation of the words rootless and directionless.  Expectations are that 20-somethings would be free of responsibility that family (read: kids) bring about, while simultaneously enjoying all the freedoms that adulthood otherwise offers (read: choice, movement, finances, alcohol).  While some of this is true (I love that Kyle and I can just pick-up-and-go to the cabin for the weekend, can sleep in as late as we want on weekends and then walk over to MayDay Cafe for coffee, have as strick or as loose plans as we want, etc. . . ) - there's often general feelings of purposelessness and selfishness - fearing I'm wasting my time, my life and having no idea how to rectify this (and we Christians must not waste our lives - that's for sure).  It's also this weird tension between being free and having little responsibilities and feeling like I don't belong anywhere and my roots haven't had deep soil to grow in for about 7 years.  I often have this feeling that no one really knows me, because, well, the people I spend most of my time with have only known me for a year or so.  And just be it known that there's a lot more to Julie Oostra than just the last 12 months.

Opportunity is sometimes another word for a inordinate amount of options that are seemingly at your fingertips but often aren't a reality because of lack of experience, lack of finances, or lack of education that make you feel like you aren't actaully capable of anything meaningful and life-giving and thus cause paralyzing panic. Sometimes "choice" is a curse.  I've often wished that I was the kind of person who always knew what I wanted to "do" - like a number of my classmates growing up.  Since day one of kindergarten it seemed, Ryan knew he was going to be a doctor (okay - it was fifth grade, but still).  And look at him now - super smartly saving lives in some super detailed and complicated specialty related to brains. No wasted life there.  And then there's me: one year it was a doctor, the next a marine biologist, the next a teacher, the next (and the next) an Olympic track star, the next a university professor, the next a lawyer (or at least a legal advocate), the next a nutrition/health consultutant for sustainable food production and consumption, all the while thrown in there here and there: a mom.

Ugh, please just give me my 70s where I can love every kid that comes into view to death, rock on a rocking chair with Kyle every morning on the front porch with coffee, bake crazy amounts of pies for neighbors and friends and strangers, and listen to the problems of the broken and speak with that certain kind of wisdom that can only come with experiencce and say "It'll get better. I know."

I have some redemptive thoughts here for you, but quite honestly, I think this letter's gotten too long and I'm low on motivation.  I'll save these ideas for a second installment.

Carpe diem,
Julie