This is off the beaten track for me, but I found myself closing out my twenties with a very, “Good riddance! Thank goodness I never have to do that again!” attitude. And in some ways, that’s fair — it’s been a LOT of trial and error, heartache, and not knowing what the heck to do. But also: I got to live three whole decades! And there was so much good tied up in the last one; I wanted to write a little piece to honor that goodness. I’ve been compiling this in bits and pieces since September, working on it on walks, at my sitting spot, at my thinking spot (not to be confused with my sitting spot), in my coffee shop, on the ferry to/from Ocracoke, and of course in my home.

Where was goodness in my twenties? I ponder the question because I am too prone to rush into a fresh decade, shielding my eyes from past struggles and mistakes, and because at times goodness was nearly blocked out by the looming ache for behold! moments, moments that must bring clarity and direction and resolution. But goodness was surely there, forming the earth beneath my faltering steps. 

Where was goodness in my twenties? It was in the glittering eyes, the mischievous streaks, the crooked teeth of my nieces and nephews, all born this decade. The goodness of my twenties was in discovering that no one – no one – makes me laugh like my brother. It’s the way my sisters and I can have four conversations at once and still understand each other through the flurry of incomplete sentences, movie references, eyebrow raises, and inside jokes from eight years ago. The goodness of my twenties was in my dad’s office door, never closed to me no matter how many questions I presented, from career conundrums to the problem of evil. It was in the way I could easily lose thirty minutes on the phone with my mother, and still have more to tell and to hear. 

The goodness of my twenties was in the privilege of getting acquainted with my grandparents as adults, in talking politics, budgets, and plans with them as someone with skin in the game. It was in the blessed way age shrank from chasm to gap between myself and siblings, cousins, aunts, uncles, my friend’s parents, my sibling’s friends – in finding that friendship is a happy companion for fading seniority. It was in realizing that the stalwart adults of my youth once muddled through their twenties, too, and that their decisions were less edicts set in stone than best guesses pressed prayerfully into orange Carolina clay. The goodness of my twenties was in talking my siblings through the uncertainties of the talking stage, and laughing from my toes at their weddings, and sending them off into the sunset to make best guesses of their own. 

The goodness of my twenties was in friends who muddled along with me, some of whom remember my self-serious Christopher & Banks teenagerhood and still renewed for another decade. It was in late nights and early mornings at Ridgecrest, delirious from long workdays but somehow still thinking deep conversations were a good idea – in bonding over theology and Anne of Green Gables and Sonic drinks. It was in feeling immortal next to my bosom friend on the beach on the one warm day in January, and thudding back to earth with a sunburn that cracked for weeks. The goodness of my twenties was the wonder of friends who found me on the internet and thought, “Yes, this one. I’ll keep her.” And then they kept keeping me after we’d met in art museums and picnics, in big cities, and Zoom calls. It was in the privilege of keeping them, too – old friends and new – through big dreams, deep angst, cross-country moves, and published pieces, through new jobs and new babies and new pains and new lives, and the crush of new everything that happens in our twenties. 

The goodness of my twenties was in the way new happenings stacked – minute by minute, mistake by mistake – into the foundations of experience. It’s in the “working knowledge” section of my grown-up resume; how to use a fire extinguisher, how to phrase a follow-up email, how to whip up lunch for 50 when Plan A goes awry, how to have a difficult conversation. The goodness of my twenties was also in quieter knowledge, a bouquet of details gathered from hours of talking to strangers. A turtle nest hatch is called a boil, paleontologists hold bitter grudges, there is a prayer one must say before entering the forest in Guam, the plural of haiku is haiku, and the key to keeping a fern alive for 70 years is skillful neglect. 

The goodness of my twenties was in learning before most people my age that our mortal bodies and minds have limitations. In my body’s betrayal I gained aches in places I didn’t know could ache and a seemingly bottomless well of weariness – but I also gained a tender spot, a bundle of nerve endings that find use reaching out to meet another’s suffering. The goodness of my twenties was in the strength provided like manna exactly when I needed it, and not one moment before. It was in laps I could not imagine I’d swim and limbs that still can still make meals and carry cardboard moving boxes, even when my legs shake and I’d like nothing better than to lie flat beneath sage-colored sheets. 

The goodness of my twenties was in the havens of the Piedmont years – in secret parks, weekend two lane drives, free museums, black box theaters, and Quail Ridge Books. It was in the writers and words and poems and plays I did not know I needed until they found me. It was in the way their lines made my cells sing with the truth of them, and the relief that someone had walked this path before. It was in the way a few bits of fabric and flashes of light and words spoken aloud can transform a backyard into a tempest, or a king’s court, or Sherwood Forest. The goodness of my twenties was in all the new places I’ve seen, the seas of new customs and faces that paid me no mind, in the weightlessness of being just a face in a crowd. It was in the bittersweetness of having my heartstrings attached to multiple far-flung places and people, in the little tugs that keep me always missing a piece of someplace else. 

The goodness of my twenties was in the way the scent of my church (coffee, hint of hairspray, scratchy chair fabric, cranberry cleaner) became familiar in a matter of months, and made me immediately drop my shoulders. It was in the delight of building new habits to suit a new life – Sunday night tidying, evening walks to the bluff to see if the water is still there, rotating through favorite meals served on plates decorated with fish, with castles, with zoo scenes, and with Gary, Indiana. It was in a single pot of pasta boiling on the stove in an apartment so small all the windows fog up. The goodness of my twenties was in finding that freedom doesn’t just mean flying to the wind, but also being able to stand comfortably in place.

The goodness of my twenties was in the high hopes that didn’t pan out – in the wedding bells left unrung, the job offers that didn’t arrive, and the pitches passed over. Each time I open my very own front door and breathe in the smell of home, I breathe out a prayer of gratitude for each and every no that led me to this threshold, for the way the absences of a couple thousand yesterdays made room for a full life today. The goodness of my twenties was in discovering new favorite houses and favorite streets, and the coffee shop owner who always calls me “my lady”. The goodness of my twenties was in the way strangers found their way to my kitchen table, the one I bought at an estate sale hoping someday it would give guests a peaceable place to rest. It was in the Easter dinner that stretched nearly to midnight, yeast rolls disappearing one by one until the candles sputtered out. 

The goodness of my twenties was learning that breakthroughs do not come when you are ready, thinking your very hardest, journal in hand. Instead, they tend to tap you on the shoulder in the middle of rush hour traffic. It was in finding that not much changes in one year, but so much changes in ten. The fledgling wisdom of my twenties tells me to stop permitting passivity to masquerade as patience, to not confuse stepping stone with landing place, and that I am allowed to try something and then change my mind. The goodness of my twenties was in learning the difference in weight between my conscience and my worst fears; the former is an anchor, the latter a millstone around my heart. It was in seeing that sometimes God works in thunderclaps, but more often His work is slow and gentle — but no less sure.

The goodness of my twenties was in realizing that the much-awaited behold! moments come not with a trumpet or a message written in the sky, but in emails opened in the Kroger cashier line. It was in giving up prayers for 30 year plans and offering instead requests for daily bread. The goodness in my twenties was in walking the labyrinth outside the Methodist school – entering the maze with a head full of questions and winding my way to the center by following the brick pattern, step by step. The goodness of my twenties was in reaching the center and finding no answers but a renewed trust in the good Hand that steered the last decade. In beholding, and beholding, and beholding the goodness in my twenties – the dreams and strength and kindnesses that I didn’t even know to hope for – I step forward, more certain of the earth beneath my feet.