On Epiphany Sunday, Pastor Georgia offered us each a guiding word for the coming year, printed on cut-out stars. My twin daughters drew “Love” and “Mystery,” my husband “Future.” I reached into the basket with happy anticipation. What word did the Spirit have to offer me?

“Maturity.” 

Maturity, what a dud! I wanted to trade with my nearest seatmate, who got to go home with “Lightheartedness,” but he didn’t seem interested. 

At age 46 and living in the pressed panini section of the sandwich generation, I feel like there’s plenty of adulting in my life already. I do so many mature things, like: 

Our taxes.

Strategizing for and negotiating the Individualized Education Plan meeting for my child at school.

Leaving early so that I have time to pull over when the unemployment office finally calls back.

Knowing far too much about the Medicaid paydown and processing the implications of it with elderly relatives.

Planning funerals.

Being in other people’s documents: executor, power of attorney, emergency contact.

Having a will. 

Keeping everyone’s immunizations up to date, including the cat’s.

Oh, sure, there are more mature choices I can make. Glowering at my Epiphany star, I resolved to floss more, be patient with ­multifactor authentication and interrupt my doomscrolling long enough to call my representative and suggest we defund ICE and leave Greenland alone. 

But being assigned “Maturity” felt unfair. I’ve faithfully followed our culture’s What It Takes to Be an Adult narrative — married, got a flock of chickens, raised twins to the age of independence (buckling their own seatbelts and choosing their own middle school activities), worked for two decades in Mennonite higher education, published a couple of books. This morning I started a fire in the woodstove using only one match. 

I’m really a highly competent per­son, a veritable fount of maturity, wis­dom and experience, and I deserve a break.

Ahem.

I don’t know how much faith to put in my wisdom, though. Early yesterday morning, that wisdom — likely trying to process the generalized anxiety of these troubled times — wrote, directed and had me star in a dream about a haunted bagel house. No, I never found the bagels, and yes, I woke my husband Jason with my dream-screaming/real-life mumbling. 

He later told me that my mumbling sounded critical, like I was judging someone. “I was trying to save them,” I explained. “They had to leap free before the haunted bagel house exploded.”

In the moment, he had tried to go back to sleep, not appreciating the urgency. “Stop dreaming,” he advised.

“Stop talking,” orders Sallie, as we drive home from school. Sallie has speech delays, so we’ve prioritized clear communication over politeness. She doesn’t want me to talk with Irene in the car, because it will block her available processing channel, which she wants to use for more important things: listening to music or talking to her Down syndrome Barbie, Flower.

“Stop talking,” she tells us. “Stop talking.” Normally, I might tease her by asking why she gets to decide who talks and who doesn’t talk. Who elected her the Queen of Talking? But my star said “Maturity,” so I just stop talking. This time.

Around 11 the other night, Jason got communicative, just as I was getting ready to go to sleep. He was thinking about the future, having January thoughts. I was brimming with ideas and encouragement, but I have learned to check first before offering my bounty of wise advice. He wanted none of it, just a listening ear.

Daily, Irene and I say the same words, at the same time. She’s basically downloaded my brain and, as a middle schooler, she’s eager, maybe desperate, to interact with other brains that aren’t identical to hers. I have nothing left to teach her. My work here is done. Now I can die — and that’s OK, because I have written a will. 

I’ve become redundant in my own household. There’s nothing left to say here. Maybe the Maturity star is a sign I should move into a season of thoughtful listening, of wise discernment about what the second half of life should bring.

Yawn.

Fortunately, before I could become too self-reflective, the AW editor asked me to write a column. A captive audience? Of course I said yes. Maybe you, my new readers, people who do not live in my house, will appreciate my hard-earned maturity. Maybe you’ll even heed my warnings when I cry out in my dreams: Abandon the haunted bagel house! It’s gonna blow!