Yesterday was my birthday. I turned thirty-nine. Ten years ago, I would have dreaded ever seeing the day that I was almost forty. In fact, I can remember this somber feeling when I turned twenty-nine, knowing that I was about to enter my thirties. But I can tell you one thing, my thirties have been the best years ever. If I could trade this upcoming year for a chance to go back and relive one of the years from my twenties, I’d run screaming, arms flailing.

I can tell you another thing, thirty-nine looks nothing like I’d expected it to. My twenty-nine year old self would expect to see me carting around two kiddos, still teaching, and there’s no way I’d ever be homeschooling. But here I am, with four kids and one on the way (twenty-nine year old me just had a panic attack reading that). We homeschool. We go to church every week. I love to decorate my home. I have chickens!!

What happened? Jesus did. Although I had spent a lot of time in church growing up, it wasn’t until I turned thirty-two that I really gave my life to him and life hasn’t been the same since. It has been more of an adventure than I’d ever imagined. My life has peace that I didn’t know existed. Life has a purpose.

But this isn’t a knock at the twenty-somethings reading at all. The main reason the thirties have been so good to me isn’t as much as the 2-0 decade, but more of the kind of person I was during those ten years. And if I could go back and give that twenty-nine year old me a pep talk, I’d tell her that I was about to finally feel comfortable in my own skin. I would begin to have confidence in my decision making. I would become less selfish.

This time next year I’ll be forty.