As the Spirit was moving over the waters, Spirit come move over us.

It’s 12:33am on New Year’s Day and I’m writing, because that’s what I do. 

Tonight, I am thinking about the ocean. I can hear the rhythmic crashing of the waves and the seagulls cawing in the distance. I can smell the sea salt air mixed with sunscreen and feel the warm sand on my skin. In this imaginary moment, I am home. 

If it wasn’t already painfully obvious from the unintentional aesthetic of this blog, let me share with you that I am truly, madly, deeply in love with the ocean. My love for the ocean and, particularly, the California coast hasn’t changed with space and time. In fact, it’s only grown stronger. The best way to soothe my soul on a bad day is to drive straight to the water and breathe in deeply. It’s the place where I feel God’s presence most profoundly and, in turn, it is also the place where I feel most myself. It’s as if the waves are my mirror, offering me glimpses of my truest form.

I love the ritual of ringing in a new year. I love the hope that it brings, the belief that we all have another shot. I love setting goals and intentions that support purpose instead of inviting shame. I love clearing my spaces of all of the past to make room for the present. The accountability of the calendar helps me with this. It motivates me to act, and, for that, I am grateful. 

Over the past six months, especially, I’ve struggled with finding my purpose and have feared being doomed to a life of mediocrity. I’ve also felt conflicted about my cultural identity – how does the beachside city girl who comes alive in flip-flops and ripped shorts put down roots in small-town Oregon? Does it even make sense for her to? 

Now, you may be wondering why this is even a question I’m pondering after living in said small-town Oregon for the past 16 years. Well, my friends, I think many people’s identities change when they move at a young age. They start to conform to the environment around them and adapt to their new cultural norms. With each year they become more and more like the new place and less and less like the old. That never really happened for me. 

I tried to adapt; I did. I bought Chacos fresh out of high school in hopes that they would magically turn me into a fully-fledged Oregonian. My hopes were dashed after wearing them for exactly one day and realizing that a pair of shoes on the outside can’t change the longing for something else on the inside. I left them at the back of my closet for months before finally selling them to what I’m assuming was a pure, genuine, forest-loving Oregonian. Not a poser like me. 

I’ve lived in limbo for longer than I'd like to. In high school, I just had to make it to college to figure out what I was going to do with my life. In college, I just had to make it to graduation and suddenly all would become clear. In grad school, I just had to work hard so that all the shiny doors would open up as I exited the academic space and entered the workforce. And now I’m here and I still don’t know what I’m doing. 

I think I’m afraid of big change. For any change, really, that would take me away from my family that I so dearly love. I’m afraid to give God enough of me to trust him with the really big stuff. I’m also afraid not to. I love the ocean, but I fear what it signifies. It keeps calling my name no matter how hard I try to run in the other direction, choosing comfort and convenience over purpose.

My best piece of advice to other people is that if you are justifying why you’re doing a certain thing, you probably shouldn’t be doing that thing. In my experience, justification is most often a way for us to convince ourselves to ignore what we know to be true and choose the direction that feels safer, more practical, more easily controlled, etc. This is advice so easily given and so begrudgingly taken. 

A few months ago, I was listening to a podcast episode featuring Jamie Winship where he was talking about purpose and identity. Afterward, I spent time praying and asking God how he saw me. I felt like he said that I’m a bird. 

Truth be told, I have no idea what that means. And yet, it resonates. I wrestle with the tension of feeling compelled to spread my wings and soar mixed with the perception that bars and clipped feathers prevent me from doing so.

Perhaps one day I’ll be like the birds of the ocean dancing between the water and the sky.   

I don’t feel confident about what my next steps are. I don’t feel confident about where I should live or what I should do or who I should do it with. I am entirely comfortable making seemingly illogical decisions when I know that it’s the right thing to do, but in this moment nothing feels clear. I don’t have confidence or clarity, but I do have trust in better things ahead.

There is a peace and fulfillment I find near the ocean, an unparalleled spiritual groundedness. I want more of that this year, whether by physical proximity, spiritual intimacy, or both. I catch glimpses of the me that I could be in the water. Now it is time to be her. 

It’s 1:39am on New Year’s Day and I’m writing, because that’s what I do. 

Tonight, I am thinking about the ocean and believing that God’s promises and purpose will refresh me like the tide. Good things are on the horizon, of that, I am sure.