I’m not being dramatic when I say that 49% of me believes I’m going to be a barista forever. And I love my job. I love coffee and
most humans and the service industry, but I don’t want to be a barista forever. It’s all a part of being in your twenties, I tell myself, just to look around and see everyone else becoming doctors and teachers and lawyers and accountants. Then it’s all a part of being creative, I think, just to look around and watch my artistic friends achieve unbelievable things before they’re old enough to legally rent a car.
Then it must be me. I’m missing it.
Fear creeps in and spirals into hysteria.
If only I had signed the contract,
or followed up with that connection,
or stopped being so creative,
or started loving math more,
or kept up with my internship,
or switched to secular music,
or moved to that city,
or changed my voice,
or majored in English,
or married that boy,
or married that other boy,
or moved to a remote village in Asia,
or listened better or prayed bigger or read my Bible more…
…Then I’d be doing what I was designed to do.
I know it’s illogical to think I’ve thwarted the plan of an omnipotent God by failing to sign a contract, but when you’re on your fiftieth latte of the day and a customer yells at you because of a blueberry muffin, it’s easy to feel forgotten. It’s easy to feel like God is shaking his finger and making me stay put until I learn to be content. But I am content… or at least I think I am. I just have an itch to move forward, to progress, to do what I’m meant to do.
Then I wonder if I need to sacrifice it all. Maybe I need to raise the knife to my dreams of leading worship or touring with Lecrae (seriously) or writing a book or bringing the Gospel to North Korea. Maybe I need to forget about them because they cannot satisfy me—only God can satisfy me. And God doesn’t want me to be satisfied in anything other than him. But what if I’m the person in that parable about the talents who doesn’t do anything with the gifts his master gave him?
Then I think God is just waiting for me to make a move.
Or maybe he’s asking me to be still and rest.
Or possibly a combination of both.
Or maybe I’m overthinking the whole thing and it’s all a part of being in my twenties.
Only time will tell.
But for now I’ll keep repeating “God is sovereign over my life” in my best David Platt voice until my thoughts untangle (or the vein in my head pops).