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important.”
    â€œMarrying me is doing something with your life.” His frustration sharpens each word. “Something important.”
    I jam my hands in the front pockets of my jeans and study the ground. “I’m not saying it’s not, but I don’t want to get married yet.” I look at his face. “I haven’t figured out God’s purpose for me yet. I can’t be Mrs. Ricky Holden or Mrs. Anybody until I discover who He made me to be. Can you understand?”
    The next seconds last for an eternity. Then he utters, “Guess so,” pouting like a benched Little Leaguer. Without another word, he slides off the tailgate and slams it shut.
    â€œWhere’re you going?” I scoot behind him as he gets into his truck.
    â€œI got something to do.” He revs the engine and shifts into reverse.
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œAin’t your concern now, is it?”
    â€œHey, you were the one who said I should do something about my life if I’m not happy.”
    â€œI didn’t mean dump me.”
    â€œDump you? Rick, I never said ‘dump.’ I said I didn’t want to—”
    He guns out of the driveway, spraying dust over me, and careens off into the night.
    With my old Taylor in hand, I make my way up the attic steps and out to the summer porch. Though the night air is cool, the porch is still warm from the southern sun. It feels good. Carefully, I prop my guitar against the screened wall and fumble in the moon’s glow for the old lawn chairs.
    The conversation with Ricky echoes across my mind, and my stomach feels like I swallowed a rock. What a terrible way to end the evening. But at the same time, I’m glad we slew that dragon. The marriage question has always lurked beneath the surface. Sooner or later, it had to rear its ugly head.
    Ah, one of Daddy’s old chairs. Rain has rusted the joints, so I wrangle it open, but when I sit, the rubber straps give way like warm silly putty. I sink down, holding my breath, hoping they don’t snap.
    Settling my guitar on my knee, I strum softly, listening for the song of the crickets or the hum of the cicadas, but the night is solemn. So am I.
    I play until I finally realize the chair is just too uncomfortable. Slipping the guitar strap over my head, I wriggle to my feet and stand by the screen, looking out over McAfee land.
    Daddy, the uncles, Grandpa, Great-Grandpa McAfee, and, I believe, the grandpa before him, were all born right here in Freedom. Born free, Daddy likes to say. But for me, Freedom born isn’t free. Other than the freedom Jesus gives my soul, my life feels more like a lost marble, hidden under the bed, waiting to be found.
    But deep down, in the secret place, I know what I want to do with my life. Or try to do.
    Write songs.
    I have no idea if I’m as good as Jeeter and all say, but I’m getting a little tired of doing the two-step with fear and anxiety. A little tired of waiting around for “some day.”
    All I know is when I’m old, I don’t want to sip from the cup of regret, wondering what could’ve been. Too many people doing that already. Momma, for one. Whatever she’s sipping from her I-wish-I’d-done-different cup makes her whole face pucker.
    With those thoughts rattling around my soul, I sit on the old picnic bench and work out my burden with a song.
    Lord, You are my wise Counselor,
    My Prince of Peace,
    My very best Friend,
    So here I am at Your feet.
    I need the wisdom of the Ancient of Days,
    Enlightened eyes with a deeper faith,
    I hide myself in You, O Lord
    So here I am, seeking Your face.
    The familiar feeling of God’s pleasure shines a spotlight on the monster of worry, and it shrivels. It’s in moments like these I have a sense of destiny.
    â€œI’ve been looking all over for you.” With a bang, the porch door opens and the light from the bare bulb overpowers the darkness.
    I twist around to see