I don't want to be special.
I want to be a boring homemaker with a boring husband and boring children. I want us to be so boring that no one would look twice, that we would be neither rich nor poor, happy nor sad, here nor there. I just want to be.
Some say I must be special since God has chosen to give me troubled people and thorny paths, that He knew I would be able to endure, that He knew I wouldn't refuse the cup.
I say I don't want to be special. I say I never asked to be special. I say I'm tired of being special.
I yearn for the quiet walk in the woods when life gives me roller coaster rides. I long to listen to the gentle lapping of the ocean waves when life throws screaming fits in my ears. I crave the softness of a comfy couch by a crackling fire when life grabs me in the gut and wrenches my heart in two.
I don't want to be special, but it is the cup God has given me, and so I must drink, for to choose not to drink is to abandon hope altogether.