July 1, 2010. While merging into a swirl of traffic on the Baltimore Beltway at Providence Road, my final commute home, I thought about the decision I’d made. I had given up my job, which entailed staying with a colleague during the week, so Keith and I could live together for the first time in our four-year marriage. We were building a new house, a mountain chalet with no attic and few closets, in preparation for the third stage of life. 

While passing the next exit—Dulaney Valley Road to Hampton Lane, the alternate route to the school where I had taught—I felt a heaviness in my chest. A more honest reason for my resignation was, though the passion still burned, I no longer had the patience for teaching. The same had happened with my other profession: parenting. When I accepted the job in Maryland eight years before, I’d sold my house in Texas, packed my son off to college, and drove away, leaving my twenty-two-year-old, college-graduated daughter behind. I’d lost patience with that work, too, and I was tired. And yet, I mourned the loss of the work-and-kids life that had brought joy. 

While my brain wrestled with that tension, I went deep into my heart and prayed. 

I know this is what you want me to do, but without teaching or parenting, I don’t know who I am anymore or what I’m called to do. 

I’d been talking with God every day since my first marriage failed and I’d given up atheism. For twenty years, the Spirit’s gentle voice had guided me through endings and beginnings like this one. My new job would be housewife, finance manager, and overseer of construction for our forest retreat in the Blue Ridge Mountains. 

“Will house-building be enough?” I asked myself—and God. How small that question sounds to me now. How big the answer turned out to be. 

I heard a high-pitched roar and glanced into the rearview mirror. A speeding motorcyclist was swerving through the heavy traffic. When he pulled behind my car, I noticed his torn jeans and short-sleeved shirt. The tinted visor of his helmet hid his face. I eased up on the accelerator, hoping the young man would pass before the 83 exchange. 

He revved his engine and pulled within inches of my back bumper. Three more quick revs drew him closer. I gripped the steering wheel and pressed my back into the seat’s lumbar support. Why me? With so many cars on the road, why was he threatening me? Looking for an escape, I calculated the other vehicles’ potential moves and countermoves against my own. But, like a player stalemated in chess, I was out of options. 

Game over? 

Time stopped. Except for the motorcyclist and engine roar, all sound and imagery faded. I felt a gentle breeze and calmed. Will I die here on the Baltimore Beltway before my second half of life begins? Another question surfaced. Would dying be easier than facing the future? And then this: Am I any different from this unknown man, racing forward and putting the past behind him, regardless of the consequences? 

Adrenaline spiked through my body. 

Immediately, time resumed. The cyclist sliced left and shot past, weaving around vehicles like a video game avatar. Part of me admired his skill and envied the freedom his ease suggested. Another part felt guilty for having those feelings. To hide the guilt, I chose my default. 

“Fool.” I ground my teeth and glared. 

As the motorcycle disappeared into the distance and the roar died away, I put the incident out of my mind, including the time lapse. But later—more than three years later—there would come a moment when I’d recall the scene in vivid detail and note how it aligned with an event from my distant past. Meanwhile, like the Hebrews wandering in the wilderness for forty years before crossing into the Promised Land, I would stand at that dangerous threshold. 

Until I remembered.

This excerpt from Wisdom Builds Her House was published in August 20^th’s Sage Forum: https://thesageforum.substack.com/p/wisdom-builds-her-house