“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.” Ecclesiastes 3:1

I was excited to be a mother. I had read the “What to Expect” books concerning both pregnancy and the first year. I researched baby items, carefully selecting the right furniture for our nursery. My brother-in-law painted our room a sunny yellow, with a blue ceiling. My Aunt Brenda followed up by faux painting the ceiling with streaks of purple, yellow and pink, making the nursery look like a Venetian sky. I had clothes washed and ready for the baby’s impending arrival. I felt prepared. I put my hand on my stomach often, talking to the baby in soft tones, telling him how excited I was for his arrival.

But then, I was past my due date, uncomfortable and unable to sleep. By the time my son was born, and they laid him on my chest, I didn’t have the instant warm feeling of maternal bonding flooding my heart. I was exhausted and in a bit of shock from the whole ordeal of childbirth. That maternal instinct kicked in the next morning, when I held my son in my arms, marveling at his features and God’s goodness. Fourteen months later, my daughter was born in a whirlwind of activity. Again, the maternal hormones didn’t kick in immediately. They flooded my heart later that night when I was alone with my blue-eyed daughter, again aware of God’s goodness.

I kept those thoughts to myself for years, feeling ashamed of my perceived lack.  I thought there was something wrong with me. But then I began to hear of other women struggling with the same feelings. A woman’s body is dealing with major hormonal fluctuations before, during, and after birth. It’s quite common for women to not feel initially present or bonded with their baby. And for some, this lack of bonding takes on the form of something more serious, postpartum depression, which may need the help of professionals. So, I shared my story with others to help remove some of the stigma.

Twenty-four years later, “We are empty nesters!” became my mantra accompanied by a little jig for the first six months after Maggie got married. It wasn’t that I didn’t miss my daughter, I did.  But for the first time in 24 years, Terry and I were living alone, responsible only for ourselves. This change coincided with the time I was no longer doing childcare in my home on a regular basis. It was a new way of living, and I was looking forward to the adventure!

Recently, I read a comment string about the most important things you would want to tell someone about entering the empty nest stage. As I read the comments, I was surprised to see how sad and depressed a lot of women felt. Once again, I started to feel like I lacked some maternal instincts, not having the same experience that they did. But I stopped that train of thought immediately! I can love my adult children well, miss them, and still enjoy the empty nest stage. And I am sure I am not the only one who feels this way. What could I add to this conversation about my first year of experience as an empty nester?

• It’s hard to cook for two people. For twenty years, I have been cooking for at least four people. Now, I only need to make two chicken thighs, not six. I need two servings of pasta, not the whole box. And as much as I love soup, I don’t want it for five days in a row. Additionally, I find myself wanting to cook more ethnic dishes. Trying to balance this with Terry’s favorite dishes is hard. But I am up for the challenge and am finding new ways to meet our dietary needs.
• I leave the cupboard doors open and my shoes are all over the house. For years, I assumed that if the cupboard doors were open, that one of the children carelessly left it open. Also, my shoes were amongst the pile of theirs, so it didn’t seem as much of a problem. But now that they are gone, I clearly see the messes I make and the ones my husband doesn’t make. Every so often, I work on closing cupboard doors, but all too often, I get distracted with a new activity, and the door stays open. And as far as my shoes are concerned, I put them away when I expect company. And I am okay with this.
• We sit in the living room to eat dinner most nights. I felt guilty about this for a long time. It’s not like we are watching television while eating dinner, usually we are engaged in a lively conversation. But my beautiful table is so big that when we sit at it, it feels empty. And honestly, some nights we are tired, and want to sit somewhere more comfortably. I love my table when my whole family is gathered around it. But on ordinary nights, I like the intimacy of our living room when we eat dinner.
•  As an extrovert, I surprisingly enjoy the quietness of my home. My life is busy, with me leaving the house at least two days a week for outside obligations. But the times I am home alone, I really enjoy my time with God and myself. I spend time reading, listening to podcasts, and writing. I am finding myself engaged in more creative pursuits and exploring new worlds. It is also giving me space to address hard things in my life and move towards more wholeness.
• I am discovering new reasons why I love my husband. The last five years have been filled with a lot of changes for both of us. With this growth, we are finding new ways to connect with one another. Terry is not only my husband and the father of our children, but also my best friend. He works hard to keep up with my rabbit trail conversation style and pays attention to the new culinary artist I have discovered. He gets me, quirks, and all. And he’s forever patiently closing my cupboard doors.

There have been a few hard moments during this season. I remember when Maggie’s final box was moved out, how empty her room felt. And with that last box, the chapter of our children living with us was closed. I reflected how much this room had changed in the eleven years she had lived in it. As a 12-year-old, she decorated her room with touches of Parisian chic. In her mid-teens, she read “Moby Dick” and fell in love with all things nautical, changing her room once again. Now, she was embarking on a new decorating adventure as a newlywed with her first apartment.

Like Maggie’s changing style, Terry and I have had to adapt to new changes in this season. Holidays look different because of work schedules and distance. I can choose to be stuck in the past of how we have always done things or move forward and look to the future. For me, embracing the changes seems more beneficial to my life. And unlike some of the more sarcastic comments on the string, I don’t need to change my locks.

“And we know that those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.” Romans 8:28

My great-grandmother, Emma Holtzman, was a stern woman, stingy with smiles and laughter. Instead, she embodied industriousness with her rapid use of a paring knife when peeling potatoes and her skillfulness in rolling out the perfect sugar cookies. Always working, she prided herself on keeping the house neat and clean. Most of her grandchildren, including my mom, found her intimidating. My mother kept her room loosely organized (aka a bit messy), not meeting the standards of Grandma Holtzman. On some occasions, Grandma Holtzman would come over to visit and “organize” my mom’s half of the room. She would gather all the items lying on the floor, including my mom’s prized Nancy Drew books, and throw them into the burn barrel. Returning from school, my mother would be distraught at the missing items, only to find out her own mom had rescued the items from incineration.

My mom has never liked coffee, preferring Coke instead. As a generous hostess, she offers everyone something to drink, but cheekily reminds her guests to leave her the last can of Coke. She keeps a coffee maker on hand for her guests and, last week, it died. On her behalf, Terry took a quick trip to Target to replace her coffee maker. Later, while making coffee, my mom shared a new story about Grandma Holtzman. As her grandmother was pinning the hem of my mother’s dress, she said, “You will always get taller, you will get use to scalding water, and you will learn to like coffee.” My mom chuckled as she told us this, because she never got taller, topping out at 5’1”. Additionally, she never got used to scalding water or developed a taste for coffee. But her grandmother thought she knew best, leaving my mom to go to school with three-inch hems, never letting them out because of a growth spurt.

Many years ago, a tragic story of a local woman impacted my life. In one car accident, this woman lost her husband and two sons, while her oldest son survived with serious injuries. I didn’t know this woman, but my heart ached for her. Along with a group of friends, I put together a care basket filled with candles, lotion, a book on grief, a journal, and some gift cards for local restaurants. We fully recognized that this basket wouldn’t make a dent in her sorrow, praying only that it would be a small reminder to her of God’s unfailing love.

With the intent of just dropping off the basket, the woman invited me into her home. What followed was a holy moment for me. She began to share with me the details of the accident, including that her children and husband were in two different hospitals with life threatening injuries. She had to make a terrible choice, the choice of being with her children or her husband, as they all were facing possible surgeries and/or death. She made the choice any mother would make and was with her sons as they took their last breath. Minutes later, she received a phone call that her husband had also passed away. She knew God was with her although recognizing she had a long grief journey ahead. She, along with her oldest son, had to build a new life. She contemplated selling their home and moving back to where their family lived for support. I feebly tried to utter words of hope and encouragement, but the words came out stilted and unwieldy. Quickly, I felt God nudge me to just listen. She continued to talk about her boys and their passions. One was a budding artist while the other created with Legos. She smiled as she talked about the whirlwind romance with her husband that led to this beautiful family. Already feeling this family’s pain, her last story shook me to my core. While she was in college, her identical twin sister had also been killed in an accident. At the time, she believed that this was the worst thing she would ever face in her life. Now, she believed God used that incident to build and strengthen her faith to survive her current tragedy.

I left an hour later than I expected, giving her a hug, and promising to pray for her. As I got into my car, all my choked-back tears gushed out. I came expecting to minister, instead, her story ministered to me. I kept my promise for many years, but then life got busy, and soon I forgot her name. I still can see her house, and the pictures of her boys, and occasionally I still call out to God, praying for her and her son. I hope that this woman has created a new life for herself, and I pray that she had found some joy again.

But her story speaks to a truth that we don’t always want to hear. Life is hard and it doesn’t mean we will have happy endings to all our stories in life. No matter whether this woman has chosen to remarry or lead a fulfilled life as a single woman, she will always feel the loss of her sister, husband, and sons. Her oldest son is probably starting his own family now, maybe even has children, but he will never forget the accident that changed his life. And although I have forgotten their names, God has not, and is still writing their story.

I want to repeat what I said in the last paragraph, life is hard. I don’t say this flippantly, but with a heavy heart. Cancer and unexpected accidents have changed the trajectory of my life, and what I expected to be a happy ending now looks very different. For example, cancer robbed my children of having their beloved grandmother attend their weddings. Her absence was felt, despite the joy of those days. Life is hard and I see this truth not only in my life but played out again and again in the lives of my friends and family.

Despite life being hard, I also believe that God works out everything for our good. This doesn’t mean the hard things don’t happen, it just means that there is peace and hope on the other side. But saying those words to a person in the middle of tragedy seems trite and uncompassionate. How do I love someone well in the middle of their hard, without coming across as dismissive and insincere? How do I convey God’s words as hope and peace for the other side?

I recently finished a Louise Penny novel where a likeable character from Three Pines was convicted of murder. It bothered me, even though the honorable Armand Gamache, the Chief Inspector, found all the evidence pointing to this character. Yes, this person was a bit greedy, and yes, he moved a dead body, but murder seemed farfetched. And if this was true, could I trust Louise Penny in the future to end the stories well without destroying my faith in the characters? Spoiler alert: I looked online and read the synopsis of the next book in the series and found out that the character was innocent. Instantly, I felt relieved. The ending of this book was unhappy, but I had faith in the future book to reconcile my angst.

I came across a quote recently that helped me reconcile the reality of life being hard with my faith that God is good. Orson Welles said, “If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” That woman chose not to end her story when her sister died. Instead, she built a beautiful life with her husband and three children. And once again, I saw that woman actively choose not to end her story at the funerals of her family. Instead, she was looking to the future of building a new life on the other side of tragedy. She chose not to stop at the hard points in her life but went on letting God finish her story.

I can’t guarantee my grandchildren will be tall. I doubt anyone likes scalding water. I sure do hope they like coffee because I want to take them to some of my favorite coffee shops. But if they don’t, we will find other places to have adventures. And I can’t promise them that hard things won’t happen in their life. But I can promise that if they allow God to write their story, He will help them find hope, peace, and joy!

“Grandchildren are the crowning glory of the aged;” Proverbs 17:6a

“Daddy, can Mimi read me a story?” Joel asked his dad as he was getting him into his pajamas. Ethan replied yes, and Joel ran into the living room saying, “Mimi is going to read a big book.” As much as Joel loves for me to read to him, I am aware the length of the book was his tactic for stalling bedtime. Not being called out by Mimi, he picked a longer picture book from his library basket. We cuddled together on the couch and read about duck, cow, and sheep’s tractor ride through town while his little sister, Eva, crawled around at my feet. As I read, my heart swelled, savoring this moment with my grandchildren. And all too soon the long book was finished, just as our long weekend was wrapping up as well. And soon, once again, I would be 422 miles away from my two favorite little people.

Timothy Keller passed away on May 19, 2023. For those who don’t know this name, Keller was an influential preacher of the gospel in the evangelical world. Although he has been around for a while, my first introduction came two years ago when one of my pastors played a recording of Tim Keller explaining the gospel. His intellectual pursuit of God along with his compassionate delivery resonated with me. I began regularly listening to his Gospel in Life podcast, where recordings of his past messages are shared. He wasn’t charismatic with a delivery full of pomp and flash. Instead, his voice was calm, wise, and confident. He presented scripture from the premise that everything pointed back to the gospel. He believed “the gospel says you are simultaneously more sinful and flawed than you ever dared believe, yet more loved and accepted than you ever dared hope.” He pointed out that “the irony of the gospel is that the only way to be worthy of it is to admit that you’re completely unworthy of it.”

Keller was different than a lot of megachurch pastors that have become instant celebrities only to crash later due to either moral failures or narcissism. Instead, he quietly raised a congregation of size in the heart of New York City. In the beginning of his ministry, he didn’t start publishing books pontificating about how he planted his church. Instead, his first book was published when he was close to sixty years old, articulating his answers to others’ questions about God. His influence is not measured by the books he wrote, or the messages he preached, but more by the relationships he developed and people he mentored. After receiving his cancer diagnosis, he was asked how he wanted to be remembered. Tim Keller never cared about legacy or his reputation, it was all about pointing back to the God who had saved him. But he did answer that question in an interview with these words: “I hope my grandchildren remember me.”

This same thought has echoed through my world from a few different sources. In my final MOPS meeting of the year, we watched a video of an older mom reminding younger moms to keep their inner circle of relationships a priority. Next, I started reading Jean Stoffer’s memoir Establishing Home where she echoed the importance of prioritizing her role as a mother over her growing business. And then, on another podcast, I heard the concept “live your eulogy, not your resume.”

I’ve been wrestling with life choices we made in the past and how they impact our future. I grappled when putting together a job resume, and my experience was limited to childcare. I imagine the possibilities of having made different choices. Maybe if I had chosen a career over being a home-educator, I could be going to Italy next year. Maybe if I had chosen to start graduate school ten years ago, the possibility would seem more cost effective. These “what if’s” have left me feeling disillusioned and unsatisfied.

Tim Keller’s words, along with the persistent voices of others, reminded me of the truth in my life. Like most mothers, I prioritized the little ones in my home. For me, that looked like choosing to stay home and educate my children. It looked like welcoming countless children into my home, providing a safe and nurturing environment for them while their parents worked. And these decisions along with countless others lead to the life I live today.

And it’s a good life. It’s a life where I can write a memoir that I am hoping will impact others. It’s a life where I can use some of my gifts to minister to others in my community. And it’s spent with my two favorite little humans sitting on my lap, listening to me read stories about ducks and pigs.

Italy is still a goal and graduate school is still a possibility. But at the end of the day, my grandchildren won’t remember the magnificent artwork Mimi saw in Florence. They won’t remember that she went for her master’s degree in counseling in her fifties. They will remember the time she spent with them, reading, exploring, and sharing with them the goodness of God.

Timothy Keller left behind seven grandchildren. No doubt, some day they will Google their grandfather’s name and read all the wonderful accolades about him. They will see the list of books he wrote and see places where he is quoted. But I am confident that they will have their own special memories of times spent with their grandfather. And these memories are what will help them see the Gospel in a life well lived. My wish, is that Joel and Eva, and any future grandchildren, will see that reflected in my life as well.