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?
