There is a time for everything, everything under the heavens (Ecclesiastes 3:1). There is a time for everything mortal— birds, lilies, land, sea, you, and me. Then, there is a time for when I turn 25.
25, 25. The unknown, the unbound, the scary. The beauty, the freedom, the prime. How would you measure 25 years?
That equals 50 seasons where I am from, 300 months, 9131 days where the sun sets and rises at the same time. If an oak tree was planted on the day I was born, and it went to form one tree ring each year that it ages, it would have approximately 25 tree rings, and as a lazy Google search told me, it would be around 30–50 feet tall by now.
If I looked up at the night sky and found the star Vega with my naked eyes, the light that it gives right now would be burning from around the time that I was born. One of the summer stars, shining the brightest in June, studied to be around 25 lightyears away. Reading through it in my living room, the SkyTonight App tells me Vega is positioned on my left. Outside, my left, up there— a close memory from when I first came into the world, of when my mom and dad were singing me lullabies.
So 25 years worth of something could be a strong, growing tree, could be the shine of what appears to be the brightest star in the night sky. Just a small fraction of their long, long lives. Yet, I’m not as magnificent as the sheer sight of either of them.
Then, how else would you measure 25 years, especially 25 years worth of living as an ordinary human being? By counting gains and losses? Failures and successes? Sound of laughters or stream of tears? People left or kept?
Could 25 years measure God’s unfailing love and faithfulness in one’s life? It’s how many times God has sustained me when I thought I could barely survive. How many times God has strengthen me to choose faith over fear. Even countless times I fell short and relied on my own understanding, carving my own wisdom. All the lines I drew around myself to form a distance, drifting apart, losing sight of His greatness— I let those lies got to me as I felt more and more undeserving of His love and glory.
It’s all the other places I’ve looked for love in— only to realize that I just had to run back. Run back towards Him. Like a kid who stumbled and bled, in pain, running back towards her Father’s embrace. And there He is, comforting me, fixing me, telling me He got this. Likewise a broken clay would never be too broken to be restored by the Potter.
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25. Some lessons are hard to learn. Rock and a hard place. Between letting go of my petals and believing in His cluster of flowers. Everlasting and beautiful— I just had to wait, wait, wait,
There’s a box on my feet, slowing down my steps. Heavy as a rock. Top sealed shut with a tape. Yet the sides are ruined with fist sized holes, the stuff inside kept flowing outside. On the recipient label it read, God Almighty. What did flow from there? My fears, hopes, to my dreams and excitement. Why haven’t they made their way to the Recipient? Still on my feet, holding me back from taking a step forward, the box won’t move. What haven’t I really been able to fully give to You, Lord?
I want to believe, I want to be ready to accept, I want this to be over with. Lift my rock-heavy box. Worry, worry, worry. Shall not give one more hour into my life. But all I do is worry.
I look up. Vega. The past that has disguised to be in the here and now. Always an overlooked part of my life. Here and now. I look at Vega and long to take what is never mine. To change the past. Pride, perfection, praise. Never mine.
I remember a Bible verse, “But seek first the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all shall be added—” (Matthew 6:26). How tempting it is, only reading that verse alone, and to only focus on the promise of “all shall be added”. I seek first the Kingdom, so all shall be added. What do we need to be added? Money? Power? Fame? Security? Stability?
But when I have sought and found the Kingdom of God and His righteousness, what more could I ever need to be added? Isn’t that everything that I will ever need? And life is more than this. What is there more to life? I need to know. I need to take a step. Help me get rid of this rock-heavy box on my feet, God.
At 25 years old, there’s a lot of things that I haven’t figured out yet. Middle of June, knee-deep into adulthood.
Suddenly I picture my kids, looking up at Vega. How does Vega shine to your eyes, my dear beautiful offspring? 25 years from now— as you are reading this, right above you: the blinks from the exact time I was writing this. Look at Vega blink and let it tell you these stories. Our little keepsake. One hour and 24 minutes have passed since your Sarah turned 25, her itchy eyes blink the blue light effect away, thinking about everything and nothing, thinking about you.
What word could describe the feeling of amazement when you see where God can take you in this fleeting life? 25 years. A tiny, minuscule fraction of the age of a burning star, a young oak tree. Yet, God remains intentional about my very being. He lets me find Him as I breathe a new day in, as I listen closely to birds chirping, or see clouds travel through the blue sky, or pass by leaves dancing through the breeze.
25. I may wait, weep, understand, question, laugh, and learn. Every phase, every season. God’s faithfulness keeps finding me, for the last 25, and for the 25 to come, and beyond that. For the Keeper of time is on my side.
— Sarah Abigail, June 18 2026
