I am 36 today. Those of you who have been around for awhile may recall why this is a significant birthday for me: for many years, I’ve considered 36 my spirit age, or the age that I consistently feel on the inside, regardless of the number of years I’ve clocked around the sun. Some people feel perpetually 25. I have a friend who swears she’s meant to be 72. But for me, whether I was logging a late-night shift at the library at 21, shopping for a wedding dress at 25, or struggling to learn the ropes of breastfeeding at 28, somehow I felt I was always on my way to this moment: that my life experiences, my gifts, my heart would most perfectly be used in this way – as a wife, a mom to three little ones, a daughter, a sister. A friend who tries to make sunshine for the ones she loves. A writer. A meal train queen. A school-trip chaperone. Settled in her career. Snug in a church she loves. 36 is more beautiful than I could ever have hoped for, and I am truly more grateful than I ever would have thought possible. Life feels more precious every year. In some ways, it also feels more complex. For example, I come up short when I compare the neatness of my journey thus far to those of others’ whom I love. I am no more special than anyone else, did no more right or less wrong than anyone else. It is blessing, but undeserved. It is luck, undeserved. I write this with a lump in my throat for those of you reading who have reached a certain age and find yourself not where you thought you’d be. There are a million cruel (and a few delightful)