Salt

It’s funny how birthdays change as you get older.

They shift from being bright promises of what’s to come to gentle reminders that time is marching forward. Late middle age has this way of distilling life—stripping away what doesn’t matter and leaving behind only the essentials. Time is no longer something vague and boundless. It’s a precious, tangible resource, one that I am learning to value with new urgency.

Discernment is a word I keep coming back to lately. It feels potent, sacred—almost. It’s not just about making choices; it’s about understanding the true cost of those choices. Time is the currency I'm spending, and it's more valuable than anything else.

The Old Testament story of Lot's wife has been making the rounds on social media lately, and her fateful decision has stuck with me.

Lot’s wife escaped Sodom and Gomorrah with only one command: “Don’t look back.”

And yet she did. She couldn’t resist. She turned to look at what she was leaving, needing to make sure, perhaps, that she had made the right decision.

Maybe she needed to see that her old life was really gone?

And for that one moment of hesitation, she became a pillar of salt—a monument to the temptation to linger in the past.

I understand her. It’s easy to become caught up in the pull of what we leave behind.

The memories, the comforts, the pieces of ourselves that we think define us. As a writer, I circle back to the past all the time. I dig through old stories, trying to make sense of them, trying to pull some meaning from the wounds.

There’s something alluring about the idea that if we look back just one more time, we might understand it all. But there’s a danger in that too. The more we look back, the more we risk getting stuck there, frozen in the past like Lot’s wife.

There’s a balance that’s required—a way to honour the past without becoming trapped by it. To remember without turning into salt, stuck forever staring at what can’t be changed.

It’s about knowing what is worth carrying forward and what must be left behind. And most of all, it’s about faith. Faith in the journey ahead, faith that what lies beyond the horizon is more important than what is already gone.

Recently, I reconnected with my childhood best friend. Life had taken us in different directions, but we found our way back to each other just when I needed her most. She had faced her own trials— most recently, an 8.5-hour surgery that nearly gutted her and a spiritual transformation that remade her from the inside out. She had to confront the finiteness of time, and in doing so, she found something powerful: unshakeable faith.

During one of our conversations, she asked me, “Where is the big, juicy, talented Christine? Why is she hiding? Why is she spending time stuck in the past, ruminating on things that can’t be changed?” Her questions cut right to the core.

What was I spending my time on?

Why was I letting the past hold me captive?

Why was I letting fear keep me from moving forward?

This frequent phrasing—“Do not be afraid”—is a central theme in the Bible. It’s about God’s desire for His people to live in faith rather than fear. It reminds me of my childhood best friend and the way she’s choosing to live now.

Fear keeps us looking back. It keeps us stuck, convinced that we need to understand everything before we can move on.

But faith says otherwise. Faith tells us to trust the journey even when the path is unclear. Faith tells us that the unknown is not something to fear but something to embrace.

My friend’s unshakeable faith allowed her to rebuild her life, to step into an uncertain future with courage. She faced her fears head-on and found a way to not just survive but thrive. It’s the kind of faith I wish to cultivate in myself—unshakeable faith the future is worth the leap, even if I can’t see the landing.

Discernment, for me, has become about understanding where to spend my time and energy. It’s about choosing what serves me and letting go of what doesn’t. It’s also about finding that balance as a writer—telling the stories that matter, the ones that honour my past, without getting lost in them.

To write is to look back, but to live is to move forward.

It’s the balance between memory and hope, between the past and the future.

I don’t want to be a pillar of salt, stuck in place, unable to move forward. I want to trust that what is coming is more important than what's been left behind.

I want to heed the words, “Do not be afraid,” and choose courage over comfort, faith over fear.

So, I’m making a promise to myself. I’m choosing to spend my time on what matters. The past will always be there, tempting me to linger, to look back one more time.

But the past is a place to visit, not to live.

I'm choosing to step boldly into the unknown, trusting that each step will bring me closer to the life I'm meant to live.