Aged 22.

It's not what I dreamt it would be in the days Allie, Rachel and I dressed up to welcome our pretend service men home from war or when we fought over how old our barbies should be and which coast of the U.S. they should vacation to for summer. (I argued for California and 22).

It isn't what I dreamt it would be in high school, when I imagined I would work very hard to build an impressive resume so I could graduate with a political science degree and labor long for the 2012 campaign.

It isn't even what I dreamt it would be a year ago, but mostly because a year ago I had no idea what to expect of 22. I did expect to "be" somewhere by the end of 22. And as it is, I won't be out of the country, plunged into my beloved "unknown" before September 5.

I'll be here.

Here is good.

22 is good.

And I'm glad it's none of the things I expected.

I've settled into a good routine, a fun routine.

And still, every day has a mystery,

an element of "unknown" all its own.

Here I stop at the park on a whim on a warm January day to the delight of the little girl and the at-best indifference of the two too-cool boys. Each of us leaves having made a new friend. Mine is named Sandra, aka Nanna, with whom I chat on a park bench about Obama, cooking, novels, the library, God, dependence, thanksgiving, children.

Here I can spend a Saturday with my siblings and fast-growing nephew. He kneels next to me while I scrub the tub, eager for a job of his own. He strains over the side of the tub to reach the too-hot water filled with Comet. He comes up short and grimaces at the pressure he's putting on his belly, kicks his little feet and rides the resulting momentum back down to the tile floor. "You trying to be a helper?" I ask. He only puckers his lips a little and grunts. Meaning yes and also that I'm not getting any real work done on the tub while he's around to persist in "helping." And so we go and get a Truett-sized rag and we don't really work on scrubbing the tub, we work on learning to be a helper because the thing is that in a minute one of the siblings will come in and scoop Truett up for a kiss and to distract him long enough for me to get the task done. Then it won't matter that I didn't get my chore done right that second. It'll matter that I let him "help", that I watched his chubby hands work that rag steadily back and forth on the same few inches of tub ledge, that I took note of Sarah Holljes's painting and thanked God for friends that are also helpers. Yes, I'll get the chore done and he'll get put back down at some point and come striding back to my side and I'll get a chance to keep up this "helping" charade in a different room, to again watch his concentration, to watch him grow.

(Shout out to Griffin!)

And soon we'll be done cleaning and he'll be tuckered out in bed and those siblings and I will gather around the table with ample food to fill, fellowship to overflow.

Here, aged 22, I learn to cherish opportunities that present themselves, even though I know there is much to get done, many things I want to do and be in life.

Here I do my best to stay diligent in pursuing a dream while avoiding the trap of believing the other side greener. I heard it from Nick Floyd months ago and it changed my entire approach to 22-- the grass is greener where you water it.

Here Dad calls to propose a lunch date that will rival Mom and Luke's and I throw on a dress, snatch up a clippie, forget to put the dogs up and neglect to grab a coat on the way out of the door because I don't want to miss this.

This is 22.

It isn't what I dreamt.

But I'm watering it, so to speak.

And this patch of life, aged 22, is growing in quite lush.

Thank you, Lord.