Inevitably, if you

write a book or create a work of art,

people ask what you’re up to next.

Maybe that’s true for anything.

When you get your degree, people ask when you will get another degree.

When you get a job, they ask what kind of work you’d like next.

When you get married, people ask when you’re having a baby.

When you have a baby, they ask when you’ll have more.

When you rent a house, folks ask when you’re buying one.

When you pen a poem, neighbors inquire when you’ll write another.

When you create essays, friends wonder when you’ll turn out more.

What’s next seems to be the next question asked.

I should know. I get asked that often these days.

I wrote a nonfiction book

on the physical body and its interplay

with our spiritual formation as we follow Christ.

What’s next?

I’m turning

back to writing

what was on my heart

before I began

the nonfiction:

a novel.

It’s on the way

our lives never

turn out how

we thought

they would

because what’s next is

always more full of mystery

shimmer and shine,

dry deserts,

wit and whimsy,

shattering disappointments,

long waitings full of jagged edges,

gloriously glistening redemptions.

My turn to ask the question.

What’s next?

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