Twenty-two years. That’s how long I’d been a homeschool teacher to our five boys. Now, with our youngest starting his freshman year at the public high school, as his brothers had done before him, that phase of my life was ending. The thought of spending long, empty hours in our empty house scared me.
I’d always struggled with change, but this was more than a shift in circumstances. This was losing my identity. Losing my calling, something I’d dedicated myself to and excelled at.
My husband, Lonny, was laid-back about my getting a job outside the home. “You don’t need to rush into anything,” he said. “Look into different options.”
I was eager to find a new purpose. I was good with kids, but I yearned to help people in some completely different way. I wanted to challenge myself, to prove that I could be valued for something besides raising and teaching my boys.
One day, I needed a routine blood test. I was nervous about having a needle stuck in me, and the I thought.
