Growing Old Together

There is something about growing older together that changes the way we look at love. When we are young, we imagine a lifetime stretching out before us, filled with more tomorrows than we could ever count. We build homes, raise families, make memories, and dream about the years ahead. We rarely stop to consider how quickly those years will pass or how different the person beside us will look when time has written its story upon both of us.

Sometimes, I look at my husband and find myself remembering the younger man I fell in love with. His hair has turned silver, his strength has waned, and the years have left their unmistakable marks upon his body. Time has changed him in ways neither of us could have imagined when we began our journey together. And yet, when I look into his eyes, I see something that time has not taken away. He still loves me with all his heart. Our bodies have changed, our steps may be slower, and our days may look different than they once did, but the love that binds us together remains.

Perhaps this is one of the most beautiful gifts of a lasting marriage. We have the privilege of knowing one another beyond the outward appearances that first drew us together. We have seen each other through good days and difficult ones, through laughter and tears, through seasons of certainty and moments when we had no idea what tomorrow would bring. We have watched our lives unfold one ordinary day at a time. Somewhere along the way, love has become more than a feeling. It has become a history, a promise, a familiar hand to hold, and a quiet assurance that we do not have to face life alone.

But growing older together also brings an awareness that can be difficult to put into words. We begin to understand that we are on the downhill slope of life. The years ahead may be fewer than the years behind us, and the thought of that can settle heavily upon the heart. I find myself wanting to hold tightly to every minute we have left together. I want to savor the conversations, the shared laughter, the simple evenings at home, and even the ordinary moments that once seemed too insignificant to remember. I want to pay attention to the little things because I know that one day, those little things may become the memories I treasure most.

And if I am honest, there is something that frightens me about growing older. Sooner or later, one of us will likely have to continue this earthly journey without the other. The thought of waking up one morning and reaching for a hand that is no longer there is almost too painful to consider. After sharing so much of life, how does a person learn to live in a world where the other half of so many memories is gone? How do we prepare our hearts for a loss we cannot yet imagine?

The truth is, we cannot fully prepare for every sorrow life may bring. But we can choose how we live the days we have been given. We can love more intentionally, forgive more readily, speak more gently, and stop postponing the things that matter. We can put down our distractions and look into the face of the person sitting beside us. We can say the words we sometimes assume are already understood. We can offer the extra hug, hold the hand a little longer, and remember that the ordinary moments we are living today may someday become extraordinary memories.

Scripture reminds us in Ecclesiastes 4:9–10, "Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labour. For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow." What a beautiful picture of growing together. Marriage is not simply two people walking side by side when the road is smooth. It is two people helping one another through the uneven places, lifting each other when strength fails, and offering support when the burdens become too heavy for one person to carry alone.

There will come seasons when one of us must be stronger for the other. There may be days when the body grows frail, when memory becomes less dependable, or when the simplest tasks require more patience than they once did. Yet love has a way of changing with the seasons. What once looked like adventure may become companionship. What once looked like strength may become tenderness. What once required grand gestures may be expressed in the quiet act of helping someone rise from a chair or covering them with a blanket when they fall asleep.

And perhaps that is what growing together truly means. It means learning to love the person before us today, not merely remembering the person we fell in love with years ago. It means recognizing that silver hair is not a loss of beauty, that slower steps do not diminish the worth of a life, and that weakened hands can still hold a love strong enough to sustain us through our remaining years.

As Christians, we also have a hope that reaches beyond the limits of this earthly life. Psalm 73:26 tells us, "My flesh and my heart faileth: but God is the strength of my heart, and my portion for ever." Our bodies will change. Our strength will eventually fail. The people we love will not always be beside us in the way they are today. But God remains faithful through every season. He is present in the joy of our early years, in the tenderness of our aging years, and in the sorrowful valleys we may one day have to walk.

I do not know what the future holds for my husband and me. I cannot promise that we will always be together on this side of eternity, and I cannot pretend that the possibility of being left alone does not frighten me. But I can choose not to let tomorrow's uncertainty rob me of today's blessing. I can love him here, now, in the life we are living together. I can thank God for the years we have shared and for the privilege of still having another day to love the man whose life has become so intertwined with my own.

If you are blessed to have someone beside you today, take a moment to look at them with fresh eyes. Look beyond the gray hair, the wrinkles, the changing bodies, and the limitations that age may bring. Look at the person who has walked beside you through the years. Remember the dreams you shared, the hardships you survived, and the memories only the two of you understand. Then give thanks for the beautiful, imperfect, precious gift of growing older together.

Because one day, we may look back and wish we could have just one more ordinary afternoon, one more conversation, one more opportunity to say, "I love you." We cannot stop the clock, nor can we bargain for more years than God has appointed. But while our loved ones are still here, we can make the most of the time we have been given.

Growing older together is not simply about watching the years pass. It is about discovering that even as time changes everything around us, love can grow deeper, faith can grow stronger, and gratitude can grow richer. And if God grants us the blessing of growing old beside someone we love, may we never become so accustomed to their presence that we forget what a precious gift it is to have them here.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the gift of love and for the people You have placed beside us on this earthly journey. Thank You for the years of shared memories, for the laughter that has lightened our burdens, and for the hands that have held ours through difficult seasons. As we grow older, help us not to be consumed by the fear of what tomorrow may bring. Teach us to treasure the moments we have today, to speak words of love while we still have the opportunity, and to extend patience and kindness when the years make life more difficult. When we worry about the possibility of loss, remind us that we are never beyond Your care. Help us grow together in love and faith, making each remaining day a testimony to Your goodness. In Jesus' name, Amen.

People Watching at the Thrift Store

One of my favorite things to do is people-watch. There’s just something about observing people going about their day that reminds me how many different stories, experiences, and personalities cross our paths without us ever knowing much about them.

Today, while standing in line with my thrift store treasures, I found myself thinking about two very different encounters.

I noticed two Amish women carefully dusting and cleaning items on several shelves. I had never seen them there before, so I don’t know if they were volunteers, paid employees, or simply two women who saw something that needed doing and decided to help. Whatever brought them there, they were working quietly and diligently. I’ve always been fascinated by Amish culture and their faith, and seeing them today reminded me that there is something beautiful about living simply, working faithfully, and doing a job without needing recognition for it. I don’t know their story, but I found myself appreciating their quiet presence.

Then there was a young man and woman standing in the checkout line. They didn’t know each other, but they struck up a conversation as naturally as if they were old friends. What caught my attention first was their clothing. Both were wearing the coolest hippie-style pants, the kind that took me straight back to my high school days in the 1970s! But it was their willingness to talk to a complete stranger that really made me smile. Back then, we often struck up conversations with people we didn’t know. We talked while standing in line, sitting in a waiting room, or browsing in a store. We didn’t need an introduction or a reason. Sometimes a simple hello was all it took to make a connection.

I wonder when we became so hesitant to talk to one another. Somewhere along the way, many of us seem to have grown more comfortable looking at our phones than looking at the person standing right beside us. We can scroll through the lives of hundreds of people without ever speaking to the one standing three feet away. I know there are good reasons to be cautious, and not every stranger is looking for a conversation. Still, I wonder how many opportunities for kindness and connection we miss because we’re afraid to take that first small step.

As I stood there with my purchases, I realized that an ordinary trip to the thrift store had given me something more valuable than anything in my shopping cart. It reminded me that every person we encounter has a story we don’t know. Some are quietly serving. Some are simply looking for a bargain. Some may be lonely and would welcome a friendly word. And some are just young people wearing pants that make those of us from the ’70s smile!

Maybe we don’t have to change the world in some grand, sweeping way. Maybe we can start by looking up, offering a smile, asking a question, or taking a moment to talk to someone we’ve never met. We may never know what that small interaction means to another person, but we might just brighten their day, and discover that ours has been brightened, too.

So here’s something to think about: When was the last time you struck up a conversation with a complete stranger? And what might we be missing when we stop making room for those little, unexpected connections?

Sometimes the best treasures we bring home have nothing to do with what we bought. ❤️

The Power of Words

Have you ever wished you could reach out and catch a word before it left your mouth? Perhaps you spoke in frustration, answered too quickly, or allowed anger to say something your heart never intended to say. In that moment, the words were released, but the damage they caused could not simply be undone. We can apologize, explain what we meant, and ask for forgiveness, but we cannot make another person unhear what we have said.

Words are powerful things. They may be small, but their impact can last a lifetime. A harsh word spoken in a moment of anger can echo in someone’s heart for years. A careless remark can plant seeds of insecurity in a person who was already struggling to believe in themselves. A critical comment can make someone question their worth, while a kind word spoken at just the right moment can give a weary soul the courage to keep going. Sometimes, we forget what we said long before the person who heard it forgets how it made them feel.

The Bible reminds us in Proverbs 18:21, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue.” What a sobering thought! Our words have the power to build up or tear down, to encourage or discourage, to bring comfort or deepen a wound. Every day, we are given opportunities to speak life into the people around us. Yet, if we are not careful, we can use that same tongue to leave hurt where we could have offered healing.

Think about the people closest to you. Your spouse, your children, your grandchildren, your friends, and even the stranger who crosses your path today may be carrying burdens you know nothing about. The person who seems cheerful may be fighting a private battle. The child who keeps making mistakes may already believe they are a disappointment. The friend who needs reassurance may be wondering whether anyone truly cares. What if God has placed you in their path today, not to criticize them, but to remind them that they are loved? What if the words you choose could become the encouragement they desperately need?

James 1:19 gives us a simple but challenging instruction: be quick to listen and slow to speak. That means we do not have to respond to every comment, win every disagreement, or have the last word in every conversation. Sometimes, the most Christlike thing we can do is pause. Take a breath. Pray silently. Ask ourselves, “Will what I am about to say help or hurt? Is it necessary? Can I say it with kindness? Am I speaking from love, or am I simply reacting from anger?”

Being slow to speak does not mean we must remain silent when something needs to be addressed. Truth still matters, and difficult conversations are sometimes necessary. But truth can be spoken with grace, and correction can be offered without crushing another person’s spirit. Ephesians 4:29 encourages us to speak only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs. Imagine how our homes, our friendships, our churches, and our workplaces might change if we made that Scripture the standard for our conversations.

And what about the words that have already been spoken? Perhaps as you read this, a particular conversation comes to mind. You remember the sharp response, the unkind judgment, or the moment when your pride mattered more than another person’s feelings. If that is you, do not let regret keep you from doing what is right. Humble yourself. Reach out. Offer a sincere apology without excuses. You may not be able to erase the hurt, but you can take responsibility for your part and begin the work of making things right.

Maybe you are on the other side of those words. Maybe someone’s criticism still plays in your mind, or something said to you years ago continues to influence how you see yourself. Remember this: another person’s words do not determine your worth. God’s love is not measured by someone else’s opinion of you. Healing may take time, but you do not have to let another person’s careless words have the final say over your heart.

Before we speak today, let us remember that our words are gifts we give to others. Once they leave our mouths, we cannot call them back. We can choose, however, to make them gifts of kindness, truth, patience, encouragement, and love. We may never know how deeply a simple word of affirmation touches someone, just as we may never fully understand the pain caused by a careless remark. That is why our words deserve prayerful consideration.

Today, ask God to make you more mindful of what you say and how you say it. Let your first response be patience rather than anger, understanding rather than judgment, and kindness rather than criticism. Before the day ends, find someone who needs encouragement and speak a word of life into their heart. You may forget the conversation by tomorrow, but they may remember your kindness for years to come.

Let us be people whose words leave healing behind, not hurt; hope, not discouragement; and love, not regret.

Heavenly Father, 

Please forgive me for the times I have spoken without thinking, reacted in anger, or allowed my words to hurt someone I love. Forgive me for the moments when pride kept me from listening and when I cared more about being right than being kind. Help me remember that once my words are spoken, I cannot take them back.

Lord, place a guard over my mouth and a spirit of gentleness within my heart. Teach me to listen patiently, speak thoughtfully, and respond with grace even when I feel frustrated or misunderstood. Help me recognize the power You have given me through my words and use that power to encourage, comfort, strengthen, and bring healing to others.

For those I have wounded, give me the humility to seek forgiveness. For those whose words have wounded me, bring healing to my heart and help me release the pain into Your hands. May the words I speak today reflect Your love and bring honor to You. Let someone feel seen, valued, and encouraged because our paths crossed.

Thank You, Lord, for the grace You extend to me each day. May I be just as generous with that grace toward others.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

"Let every man be swift to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath.” — James 1:19 (KJV)

Love at rest

Every morning, as we drive to the park for our own walk, we pass an elderly couple making their way along the sidewalk. They appear to be in their mid-eighties, perhaps even older. He wears a wide-brimmed hat, and she has soft white hair that catches the morning light. Each has a rollator to help them along, and together they make their way down the street at a pace that belongs to no one but them.

They walk side by side, slowly and carefully, their little wheels rolling over the pavement. Every now and then, one turns to look at the other, and they exchange a smile. Not a hurried smile, not one offered out of politeness, but the kind of smile that seems to say, I'm glad you're here beside me.

I find myself wondering what they talk about as they walk. Do they reminisce about the years gone by, remembering the places they've been, the home they've built, and the family they've raised? Do they talk about their children and grandchildren, or laugh over some little memory that only the two of them understand? Perhaps they talk about what they will have for breakfast when they get home. Or maybe, after all these years, they no longer need to fill every moment with words. Perhaps simply being together is conversation enough.

When they reach the end of the sidewalk, they stop. Carefully, they settle onto the seats of their rollators to rest for a while. The morning air surrounds them, the trees cast their long shadows across the grass, and the world seems to slow down just for the two of them. But their walk isn't over. They continue talking, looking at one another, sharing a moment that belongs only to them.

I love imagining what happens next. After a little rest, they turn their rollators toward home and begin the journey back, side by side once again. Maybe their steps are a little slower now, and perhaps they pause once more along the way. But I imagine them arriving home with a quiet sense of satisfaction, helping each other through the door and settling into the familiar comfort of their home. Before long, they may be ready for a morning nap, resting peacefully after their little adventure out into the world. And I can't help but smile at the thought of it.

There is something so touching about this couple. They remind me that love doesn't always announce itself with grand gestures or sweeping declarations. Sometimes love looks like two sets of wheels rolling along a sidewalk. It looks like waiting for one another, matching a slower pace, offering a hand when needed, and turning to share a smile along the way. It looks like sitting down to rest together instead of rushing to get somewhere.

Perhaps the years have changed their steps, softened their voices, and made some things more difficult than they once were. But there they are, still making their way through the morning together. Still sharing the journey. Still finding reasons to smile.

I don't know their names or their story. I don't know how many years they have spent walking through life side by side. But each morning, as we pass them on our way to the park, they leave me with a gentle reminder: a beautiful life isn't measured only by how far we travel or how quickly we get there. Sometimes, it is measured by who is beside us when the road gets harder, who waits when we need to rest, and whose face still makes us smile after all these years.

And if those two sweet souls are any indication, perhaps one of the loveliest blessings of growing old is having someone beside you who still wants to take the morning walk with you.

One slow step, one shared smile, and one beautiful morning at a time.

~ Random musings by Bonnie Annis 

(I had to turn around in my seat to get this picture of them for you. Thankfully they didn't see me.)

Remembering the Faithfulness of God

Memorial stones 

There is something precious about looking back over our lives and recognizing the hand of God in places where we may not have recognized Him at the time. Sometimes, it takes years of living before we can look back at a difficult season and understand how God was protecting us, providing for us, or carrying us through something we never thought we could endure. What once felt like an unanswered prayer may have been His protection. What seemed like a closed door may have been His redirection. And what we thought would break us may have become the very place where our faith grew stronger.

Yet, isn't it interesting how quickly we forget? We can look back over the years and recall countless examples of God's goodness, but when a new trial comes, our hearts can become overwhelmed by the circumstances in front of us. The problem seems bigger than His promises, the uncertainty louder than His assurances, and the waiting longer than our patience can bear. We begin to wonder where God is, even though our own lives hold evidence of where He has been all along.

The Israelites struggled with this very thing. They witnessed God deliver them from slavery in Egypt, part the Red Sea, and provide for them in the wilderness. They saw His power with their own eyes, yet time and again, when a new difficulty arose, they questioned whether God would take care of them. How quickly the memory of yesterday's miracle faded when today's need appeared!

Perhaps we should be careful not to judge them too harshly. Haven't we done the same thing? Haven't we experienced God's provision in one season, only to become anxious in the next? Haven't we prayed desperately, watched God make a way, and promised ourselves we would never doubt His goodness again, only to find ourselves trembling when another storm arrives?

That is one reason Scripture repeatedly calls God's people to remember. In Joshua 4, after the Lord brought the Israelites across the Jordan River, Joshua instructed them to take twelve stones from the riverbed and set them up as a memorial. These stones would serve as a reminder to future generations of what God had done. When their children asked about the stones, the people could tell the story of God's faithfulness.

God knew His people would need reminders. He knew that the details of His mighty works could fade with time and that future difficulties might cause them to lose sight of His goodness. The stones were more than rocks; they were reminders that the God who had brought them through yesterday was worthy of their trust tomorrow.

We need our own memorial stones, too. They may not be stones beside a river, but they can be the memories we hold close to our hearts: the unexpected provision that arrived just when we needed it, the strength we found when we had none left, the comfort that came through a friend, the door God opened, or the peace He gave us when nothing about our circumstances made sense. Every answered prayer, every moment of protection, and every provision of grace becomes part of our testimony.

One of the things I have come to appreciate about Facebook is its ability to bring the past back into view through its Memories feature. Sometimes, a post from years ago appears on my screen, and I find myself reading words I had completely forgotten writing. Perhaps it was a reflection on a difficult day, a prayer I shared, a milestone, or a testimony of something God had done. Sometimes, I smile at the memory. Other times, I pause and remember the emotions I felt when I wrote those words. And occasionally, I realize just how far God has brought me since then.

As we grow older, our memories may not always serve us as well as they once did. We may forget the details of a season, the words we wrote, or even how deeply we struggled before God brought us through. Yet a forgotten memory does not mean a forgotten miracle. Sometimes, we simply need something to help us remember.

Facebook Memories can be one such reminder, but the greater blessing is what those memories point us toward. They remind us to look beyond the circumstances of the moment and recognize the faithfulness of the One who has been with us through every season. A post from years ago may bring back a smile, but it may also bring back a truth we desperately need today: God was faithful then, and He has not changed.

Lamentations 3:22–23 reminds us that the Lord's mercies never come to an end and that His compassions are new every morning. The writer spoke these words in the midst of deep sorrow, not from a place where everything was going well. His hope was not rooted in comfortable circumstances but in the unchanging character of God. He could look at his suffering and still declare that God's faithfulness remained.

That is the kind of remembrance we need when life becomes difficult. Remembering God's faithfulness does not mean pretending our pain isn't real or expecting every situation to turn out as we wish. It means acknowledging that our present circumstances do not tell the whole story. We may not understand what God is doing today, but we can remember what He has already done. We may not see the way forward, but we can recall the times He led us when we could not see the path. We may feel weak, frightened, or uncertain, but we can remember the strength He supplied when we thought we had reached the end of ourselves.

What if, instead of allowing today's troubles to erase yesterday's blessings, we allowed yesterday's blessings to strengthen us for today's troubles? What if we made a deliberate effort to remember the prayers God has answered, the burdens He has helped us carry, and the moments when His presence became more real than our fears? How might our faith change if we regularly revisited the evidence of His goodness rather than allowing our present worries to occupy every corner of our minds?

Perhaps today would be a good time to look back. Open an old journal, revisit a photograph, read a forgotten Facebook post, or simply sit quietly and remember a season when God met you in a special way. Think about the person you were then, the burden you carried, and the prayers you prayed. Then consider where you are now. You may still have unanswered questions, and you may be facing a new challenge, but can you see the ways God has sustained you?

Your story is not finished. The same God who was faithful in your yesterday is present in your today, and you can trust Him with your tomorrow. You do not have to understand every chapter to trust the Author. You do not have to know how every difficulty will resolve to believe that He will never abandon you.

When the next trial comes, as trials inevitably do, I pray we will remember. May we remember not only what God has done but who He is. May we recall His mercy when we feel unworthy, His provision when we feel uncertain, His protection when we feel afraid, and His presence when we feel alone. And may the memories of His past faithfulness become living testimonies that steady our hearts in the present.

Sometimes, the faith we need for tomorrow is strengthened by remembering the faithfulness of God yesterday.

Heavenly Father, thank You for being so faithful to me, even in the moments when I have been too distracted by my troubles to recognize Your hand at work. Forgive me for the times I have allowed fear to overshadow my memories of Your goodness, and for the times I have questioned Your care when my circumstances became difficult. You have carried me through days I once thought I could not survive, provided for needs I did not know how to meet, and shown me mercy far beyond what I deserve.

Lord, help me never to forget the countless ways You have loved me. When the days ahead feel uncertain, remind me of the days behind me when You proved Yourself faithful. When my heart grows weary, bring to mind the prayers You have answered and the strength You have supplied. When I cannot see Your hand in my present circumstances, help me trust Your heart because I have seen Your faithfulness in my past.

Thank You for the memories that bring me back to moments of Your goodness, even the ones I may have forgotten. Help me use those reminders not simply to look back with gratitude, but to move forward with greater faith. And if someone reading these words is walking through a painful season today, please meet them right where they are. Quiet their fears, comfort their hearts, and gently remind them that their story is still being written by a God who loves them beyond measure.

May we grow older with hearts that remember more than our disappointments. May we remember the blessings, the answered prayers, the unexpected mercies, and the countless times You carried us when we could not carry ourselves. And when our memories begin to fade, may the truth of Your Word remain firmly planted in our hearts: You have been faithful, You are faithful, and You will be faithful still.

In the precious name of Jesus, I pray. Amen.

 

(I placed 4 large stones in the backyard of my old home as reminders to always pray for my 4 children.) 

The Thimble: Love in Every Stitch

Scripture: “Above all, love each other deeply, because love covers over a multitude of sins.” — 1 Peter 4:8 (NIV)

When I think of my mother-in-law, I think of a woman who knew how to express love without needing many words. She had a gift for creating beautiful things with her hands, and quilting was one of the ways she shared that gift with the people she loved. She didn't simply make a quilt; she gave hours of her life to it. She chose the fabric, arranged the pieces, layered the batting, and patiently stitched them together by hand. Each quilt carried something of her within it: her time, her tenderness, her patience, and her desire to give someone something that would last. As a quilter myself, I understand the work behind those gifts. I know the concentration required, the weariness that comes with hours of stitching, and the soreness that settles into your fingers as you push a needle through layers of fabric and batting. I also understand that sometimes the most meaningful part of a handmade gift is the love no one else can see.

One of the smallest but most necessary tools in hand quilting is the thimble. Slipped over the middle finger, it protects the finger from the pressure and sharp point of the needle as it is pushed through the material. Without it, the very tool used to create something beautiful can cause pain. I imagine my mother-in-law working carefully, stitch after stitch, with her thimble quietly doing its job. It was never the centerpiece of the quilt. No one admired the thimble when the finished gift was opened. Yet without that little protector, the work could become painful and difficult to continue. Isn't that often how love works? Some of the most important things in our lives are the things we scarcely notice until we understand what they have made possible.

My mother-in-law's quilts remind me that love is rarely created in one grand moment. It is built through countless small acts of faithfulness. It is the time we give when we could be doing something else, the patience we extend when we are tired, and the kindness we offer without expecting recognition. Her quilts were more than fabric and thread; they were a way of saying, You matter to me. You are worth my time. I want you to have something made with love. I wonder how many times a family member wrapped up in one of her quilts felt comfort without fully realizing how much love had gone into making it. Perhaps years later, when the fabric grew familiar and the stitches softened with use, the quilt became even more precious because it carried memories of the hands that made it.

When I quilt, I often pray for the person who will receive my work. As I pull the needle through the fabric, I whisper a prayer for their life, their needs, their burdens, and their joys. They may never know those prayers were offered, but I believe they become part of the meaning of the gift. I want the quilt to cover more than their body; I want it to remind them that they are loved and held close, even when life feels cold or lonely. And this is where the thimble becomes especially meaningful to me. It reminds me of God's quiet, faithful protection. God does not promise that we will never experience pain, just as the thimble does not remove the needle from the work. Instead, we are invited to trust Him in the midst of life's sharp places. His presence gives us strength to persevere, comfort when we are wounded, and grace to continue loving when the work of love becomes difficult. We may not always see His hand at work, but we can rest in the truth that we are never beyond His care.

Perhaps the greatest gift my mother-in-law left behind was not any single quilt, but the example she gave of how love can be lived out through ordinary, faithful work. Every handmade quilt is a reminder that something lasting can be created one small stitch at a time. In the same way, our lives become richer when we choose to love in the little moments: when we pray for someone in secret, offer a listening ear, forgive a hurt, or give our time without expecting anything in return. First John 4:19 tells us, “We love because he first loved us.” The love we give begins with the love we have received from God. So when I think of my mother-in-law and the quilts she made, I am reminded that love need not be loud to be powerful, and it need not be seen to be real. Sometimes love is a needle moving patiently through layers of cloth, a thimble protecting a tired finger, and a prayer quietly spoken over every stitch. Long after the work is finished, the love remains.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the precious gift of people who teach us how to love through the simple things they do. Thank You for my mother-in-law, for her gentle spirit, for the gifts she made with her hands, and for the love she stitched into the quilts she shared with her family. Thank You for allowing those quilts to become reminders of her care and for the memories that continue to speak to my heart. Lord, help me carry forward the love she modeled. Teach me to give patiently, serve humbly, and pray faithfully for the people You place in my life. When I encounter the sharp edges of life, remind me that Your protection does not always mean the absence of pain, but the assurance of Your presence through it. Be my strength when I grow weary and my comfort when my heart is tender. Let every stitch I make, every prayer I whisper, and every kindness I offer become an expression of Your love. May the gifts I leave behind remind others that they are cherished, and may the love I share point them always toward You. In Jesus' name, Amen.

The Empty Chair

Scripture: “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.” — Psalm 34:18 (KJV)

There is something about the holidays that makes us especially aware of who is missing. As Thanksgiving approaches, we begin thinking about family gatherings, favorite recipes, familiar traditions, and the laughter that once filled our homes. Yet for many of us, beneath the anticipation of the season lies a tender ache, because the people who helped make these holidays special are no longer here. Sometimes the hardest part of Thanksgiving is not preparing the meal or gathering the family, but looking at the empty chair and realizing that someone we love will not be walking through the door.

In the South, family has a way of becoming woven into nearly everything we do. We gather around tables heavy with food, pass down recipes written in our grandmothers’ handwriting, tell stories we have heard a hundred times, and laugh at jokes that never seem to grow old. We know who makes the best dressing, whose sweet potato casserole is always requested, and which relative will tell the same story before the meal is finished. These traditions are more than holiday customs. They are pieces of our family history, held together by the people who created them. And when one of those people is gone, even the most familiar gathering can feel painfully different.

This Thanksgiving, my thoughts turn to the people who will no longer be at my table. I think of my mother, my father, and my brother, whose places in my life can never truly be filled by anyone else. I think, too, of my Aunt Bonnie, who recently went home to be with the Lord. Each loss carries its own memories, its own story, and its own particular ache. As the holidays draw near, I find myself remembering the laughter, the conversations, the ordinary moments that seemed so unremarkable at the time but have become precious treasures now that I cannot experience them again in the same way.

Perhaps you know that feeling, too. You may be preparing a holiday meal while remembering someone who once stood beside you in the kitchen. You may find yourself reaching for the phone to call a parent before remembering that the familiar voice you long to hear is no longer on the other end. Perhaps a certain song, a favorite dish, or a story told around the table suddenly brings tears to your eyes. Grief has a way of finding us in the smallest details, often when we least expect it.

We do our best to remember the good things. We tell the old stories, share the funny memories, and repeat the expressions that made our loved ones so wonderfully themselves. We smile when someone tells a story we have heard countless times, and sometimes we laugh so hard that, for a moment, we almost forget the sadness. Those memories are gifts, and we should treasure them. But as beautiful as they are, they cannot bring our loved ones back. The laughter fades, the dishes are cleared, and eventually we find ourselves facing the truth again: someone we love is missing.

So how do we continue when a part of our heart seems to be missing, too?

Perhaps the first thing we must understand is that continuing does not mean forgetting. It does not mean we must stop crying, stop missing someone, or pretend that the holidays are just as they have always been. Moving forward is not a betrayal of the people we have lost. It is learning to carry their love with us into a life that looks different without their physical presence. We can honor their memory while allowing ourselves to experience new joys. We can laugh without feeling guilty, celebrate without believing we have forgotten, and give thanks even when gratitude and sorrow sit side by side.

Scripture reminds us in Psalm 34:18, “The LORD is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart.” Notice what this verse does not say. It does not promise that God's people will never have broken hearts. It does not suggest that faith will make every painful memory disappear or that a believer should be able to move through grief without tears. Instead, it offers a beautiful assurance: when our hearts are broken, God draws near.

What a comfort that is during the holidays. When we sit at a table that feels incomplete, God is near. When we quietly wipe away tears while everyone else is talking, God is near. When we wonder how to celebrate Thanksgiving with a heart that is both grateful and grieving, God is near. We may not always feel His presence as strongly as we wish, and we may not understand why the journey through loss must be so painful. But His nearness does not depend on our ability to hold ourselves together.

Jesus Himself understood sorrow. In John 11:35, we read two simple words: “Jesus wept.” He wept at the tomb of Lazarus, even though He knew that death would not have the final word in that story. His tears remind us that sorrow is not a failure of faith. Love grieves when someone precious is gone. If Jesus could stand beside those who mourned and weep with them, then we do not have to hide our sadness from Him. We can bring our tears, our questions, our loneliness, and even our anger into His presence. He already knows the weight we carry.

As Christians, we also hold to a hope that reaches beyond the empty chair. We believe that death is not the end of the story for those who belong to Christ. Jesus promised in John 14:2–3 that He was going to prepare a place for His followers and would come again to receive them unto Himself. That promise does not erase the pain of separation today, but it gives us something precious to hold on to when the distance between heaven and earth feels unbearably wide. Our tears are real, but so is our hope.

This Thanksgiving, perhaps we can find a gentle way to make room for both. We can set aside a moment to speak the names of those we miss. We can prepare a favorite dish in their honor, tell a story that makes everyone laugh, or invite each person at the table to share a memory of someone who is no longer with us. We can continue cherished traditions, and we can create new ones when the old traditions hurt too much to carry on in the same way. There is no single right way to grieve, and there is no requirement that every holiday look exactly as it did before loss entered our lives.

Most importantly, we can remember that the people we have lost leave behind more than an empty chair. They leave lessons, laughter, values, traditions, and expressions of love that continue to shape who we are. Perhaps we see our mother's kindness reflected in the way we care for someone else. Perhaps we hear our father's wisdom in the advice we give our children. Perhaps our brother's sense of humor lives on in the laughter of the family. Perhaps Aunt Bonnie's memory will remind us to cherish the people God has placed in our lives today. Their earthly lives have ended, but the love they gave us remains part of our story.

And maybe that is one way we learn to continue: by allowing the love we received to become love we give. We cannot bring our loved ones back, but we can carry forward the good they planted in us. We can make the phone call, extend the invitation, forgive the disagreement, and take the time to sit a little longer with someone who needs our company. We can stop assuming there will always be another Thanksgiving to say what needs to be said. Our losses remind us that the people gathered around our tables today are precious gifts, too.

If you are approaching this Thanksgiving with a heavy heart, please do not measure your gratitude by how little you cry. You can thank God for the blessings you still have while longing for the blessings you have lost. You can smile at a memory and still wish you could have one more conversation. You can trust God's promises and still struggle with the silence left behind. These feelings are not contradictions. They are part of being human, part of loving deeply, and part of learning to live with a loss that has changed you.

So when you look at that empty chair this Thanksgiving, remember that it tells only part of the story. It tells you that someone you love is no longer physically present, but it cannot tell you that their love meant nothing, that your memories have lost their value, or that your future holds no joy. And it certainly cannot tell you that God has abandoned you in your sorrow.

The chair may be empty, but the love is not. The table may be different, but the memories remain. And even when grief makes our hearts feel hollow, we can trust that the God who drew near to us in our happiest moments will draw near to us in our loneliest ones, carrying us gently through the holidays until we learn to smile again without feeling that we have left our loved ones behind.

A Closing Prayer

Heavenly Father, as Thanksgiving approaches, I come before You with a heart that holds both gratitude and grief. Thank You for the people You placed in my life, for the love they gave, the memories we made, the laughter we shared, and the traditions that became part of our family story. Thank You for my mother, my father, my brother, and my Aunt Bonnie. Though I miss them deeply, I am grateful that I had the blessing of loving them and being loved by them.

Lord, I pray for everyone who is dreading the holidays because someone precious will be missing. Comfort those who will face their first Thanksgiving without a loved one, and strengthen those who have carried their grief for many years. Sit beside those who feel alone in a crowded room. Give peace to those who cannot stop the tears and reassurance to those who wonder whether they will ever feel joy again. Remind us that we do not have to hide our broken hearts from You.

Help us treasure the people who remain, honor the memories of those who have gone before us, and carry their love into the days You have given us. When we see the empty chair, remind us of the love that filled it. When the sadness comes, draw near. And when we struggle to understand how to go on, hold us firmly in the promise that neither death nor sorrow can separate us from Your love in Christ Jesus.

Thank You for the hope of heaven, for the promise of Your presence, and for the assurance that our tears are never unseen by You. Teach us to give thanks not because life has been free of loss, but because Your love remains faithful through every season.

In Jesus' precious name, Amen.

Those Stinking Scissors

Have you ever lived long enough to realize that your mother was right about something you were absolutely convinced she was wrong about?I have. And, believe it or not, it involved a pair of scissors.

When I was growing up, my mother did a lot of sewing. She would often take in sewing to make a little extra money, and if there was one thing Mama was particular about, it was her sewing supplies. Especially her scissors. Mama had one pair of scissors that were extremely sharp, and those scissors were for one thing and one thing only: cutting fabric.

Now, as children, we didn't always understand the importance of such rules. Every once in a while, one of us would get our hands on Mama's precious scissors and use them to cut a piece of paper for a school project. Buddy, if Mama caught you with those scissors and a piece of paper, you were in big trouble. At the time, I couldn't understand what the big deal was. After all, they were just scissors. We had other scissors. Surely cutting a little piece of paper wasn't going to ruin the world. But Mama knew something I didn't. Paper can dull a good pair of fabric scissors. And when you're trying to cut beautiful fabric, you need scissors that are sharp enough to do the job properly. Fast forward several decades.

I was working on a sewing project recently and went looking for my favorite pair of fabric scissors. I couldn't find them anywhere. I searched high and low. I looked in places where scissors had absolutely no business being. I checked drawers, baskets, cabinets and sewing supplies. I was beginning to wonder if those scissors had simply decided to leave the house without telling me. Finally, my husband found them tucked inside the little zippered pocket of my sewing machine case. There they were. My precious scissors. I was so thankful to have them back in my hand. They were still sharp, still dependable, and still exactly what I needed to cut my fabric. 

And that's when it happened.

A little voice in my head said, "See? That's why I was always so particular about my scissors."It was Mama's voice. I had to laugh.

Isn't it funny how the things that annoyed us as children sometimes make perfect sense when we become adults? Back then, I thought Mama was being overly particular about a pair of stinking scissors. Today, I understand. She wasn't being difficult. She was protecting something valuable.

And isn't that just like God?

There are things He tells us not to do that we don't understand. There are boundaries He places around our lives that sometimes seem unnecessary. There are instructions in His Word that may feel restrictive when we're young in our faith. But God sees what we cannot see. He knows what can dull us. He knows what can damage us. He knows what can take the sharpness out of our testimony, our faith, our discernment and our purpose. Sometimes His "don't touch that" is really an expression of His love. Sometimes the boundary that frustrates us today is the very thing that protects what we will need tomorrow. And sometimes, years later, we look back and realize that God wasn't trying to keep something good from us. He was trying to preserve something precious within us.

James 1:5 reminds us, "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not."

I think about Mama's scissors and smile. Maybe some of the lessons we thought were silly weren't silly at all. Maybe they were little seeds of wisdom planted in us long before we were old enough to recognize them. And perhaps that's one of the beautiful ways God works. He lets us live long enough to understand some of the things we once didn't understand. He allows a memory from childhood to come walking back into our lives at just the right moment and whisper, "Now you see." I certainly do. And Mama, wherever you are, I finally understand about those stinking scissors. You were right. Of course you were. You usually were.

And maybe that's the lesson for today: When God places a boundary in our path, we don't always have to understand it before we obey it. We can trust the One who sees what we cannot. Because sometimes obedience today protects the blessing God intends for tomorrow.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the little lessons You have woven throughout my life. Thank You for the wisdom of those who came before me and for the memories You sometimes bring back at exactly the right moment.

Help me remember that Your boundaries are not meant to keep good things from me. They are meant to protect what You have placed within me. Give me the wisdom to trust You even when I don't understand. Help me recognize when You are saying, "Don't touch that," and give me the courage to listen.

Keep my faith sharp. Keep my heart tender. Keep my testimony useful. And when I look back on the things I once didn't understand, let me see Your loving hand in them.

Thank You for the lessons, the memories, the laughter, and even those stinking scissors.

In Jesus' name, Amen.

The Blessings That Stick

There are some things in life that simply refuse to let go.

I was thinking about that recently as I wandered through the woods behind our house on a beautiful autumn afternoon. I wasn’t looking for anything profound. I was simply searching for a few fallen limbs to use in a craft project. The leaves were showing off in all their autumn glory, and the familiar crunch beneath my feet took me back to childhood.

As a little girl, I loved the woods. I could spend hours wandering beneath the trees, imagining that every tree had a story to tell and every rock was a treasure waiting to be discovered. Nature fascinated me. I loved the plants, the birds, the wildlife, and all the little surprises I might find along the way. And I rarely came home empty-handed.

Sometimes I carried home a pretty feather, a handful of acorns, an unusual rock, or a few wildflowers. Those little treasures found their way into my room, where I could admire them long after my walk was over. But there were other treasures I never intended to bring home.

Tiny green and brown things would attach themselves to my socks and pants and hitch a ride right back to the house with me. Mama called them beggar’s lice. They were nature’s way of making sure I didn’t leave the woods without taking something with me. I had all but forgotten about those little hitchhikers until my recent walk.

After about fifteen minutes of gathering fallen limbs, I headed back inside feeling quite pleased with my collection. But before I opened the door, I happened to look down. There they were. Beggar’s lice.

My old companions had returned, clinging to my socks and pant legs as though they had been waiting all these years for another opportunity to follow me home. I had to laugh. But as I stood there picking them off one by one, I began thinking about how much those little hitchhikers reminded me of something far more precious.

Some blessings in life are meant to stick.

Scripture says, “A friend loveth at all times.” Proverbs 17:17. And Proverbs 18:24 reminds us that there is a friend who sticks closer than a brother.

I have been blessed with people like that.

They are the friends who don’t disappear when life becomes difficult. They check on you when they sense something is wrong. They answer the phone. They remember the little things. They pray when you need prayer and show up when you need someone beside you. They don’t have to be asked to care because caring is simply part of who they are. They stick.

And in a world where people can drift in and out of our lives so easily, there is something incredibly precious about someone who chooses to stay.

Isn’t that one of the beautiful things about friendship? Family may be connected to us by blood, but a true friend chooses to remain connected by love. They have no obligation to stay, yet they do. That kind of friendship is a gift from God.

And perhaps that is why I like the picture of those little beggar’s lice more than I ever thought I would. They remind me that some things are meant to cling. Some things are meant to follow us home. Some things are meant to remain attached to our lives. God’s love is one of those things.

Romans 8:38-39 reminds us that nothing can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord. His love doesn’t loosen its grip when we stumble. It doesn’t fall away when we wander. It doesn’t disappear when life becomes messy. It sticks. His grace sticks. His mercy sticks. His promises stick.

And sometimes, if we are paying attention, He sends people into our lives whose love becomes a tangible reminder of His own. So maybe I’ll look at beggar’s lice a little differently from now on.

I’ll still probably reach for the lint roller when I get back from the woods. But the next time those little green and brown hitchhikers cling to my clothes, I may smile before I pull them off. They will remind me to be grateful for the things in life that refuse to let go. For the friend who keeps calling. For the person who keeps praying. For the family member who keeps showing up. For the people God has placed in my life who have chosen to stick around through the changing seasons. And most of all, for a Savior whose love holds on when I cannot hold on myself.

Life changes. Seasons change. People move. Circumstances shift. Years pass much faster than we ever imagined they would. But there are some things that remain. The love of God. The grace of Jesus. The promises of Scripture.

And those precious people He sends along the way who somehow manage to stick to our hearts. Those are the blessings I never want to take for granted. 

So today, Lord, thank You for the things that stick. Thank You for the people who love me enough to stay, for the friends who check in, for the hands that reach out, and for the hearts that refuse to let go. And thank You most of all that when everything else in this world feels uncertain, Your love remains firmly attached to me.

Like those little beggar’s lice clinging to my socks, may I carry Your love with me wherever I go, and may I never forget what a blessing it is to have something so precious that simply refuses to let go. And next time I go walking through the woods, I’ll probably take a lint roller with me. But if a few little hitchhikers decide to tag along, I think I’ll just smile and remember…Some blessings are meant to stick.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the simple reminders You place along our path. Thank You for the people You bring into our lives who love us, encourage us, pray for us, and stay beside us through every season. Help me never to take those relationships for granted.

Thank You for being the Friend who never leaves, never abandons, and never lets go. When life changes and circumstances are uncertain, remind me that Your love is still holding me close. Help me to be that kind of friend to others, someone who stays, someone who encourages, and someone who points others back to You.

Thank You for Your grace that sticks, Your mercy that follows me, and Your love that will never let me go.

In Jesus’ name, Amen.

The Art of Letting Go

I step into the brisk breath of autumn, and the wind greets me like an old friend. It moves wildly through the trees, dancing between branches, lifting leaves and sending them spinning across the sky. I stand beneath a row of sentry pines and look upward. Above me, the sky is an endless canvas of brilliant blue, kissed by the golden warmth of morning sunshine. For a moment, everything seems to pause. Somewhere deep inside me, something whispers, “Change is coming.”

The trees know it. The wind knows it. Even the leaves understand. All around me, nature is quietly surrendering what it can no longer carry. Green gives way to gold, crimson, and brown. What was once alive on the branch loosens its grip and drifts toward the earth. There is no struggle in it. No frantic grasping. Only release. I feel something stirring in my own heart. Perhaps it is the wind brushing against my face and slipping softly into the places inside me that have been tired for far too long. Perhaps it is whispering the same ancient invitation it gives the leaves: “Come dance with me. Lay down your burdens. You were never meant to carry them forever.” My heart leaps at the thought.

Ginger-colored leaves carpet the lawn beneath my feet. Every gust shakes the trees, and another shower of brown and gold comes floating down, slowly, almost reluctantly. One leaf settles upon another until the ground is covered with the beautiful evidence of surrender. I watch them fall, and suddenly I am no longer standing here as the woman I am today. I am a child again. I can almost hear the laughter. I can smell the crispness of autumn. I can feel the rake in my hands.

My siblings and I bundled ourselves in sweaters and jeans and went to war with the leaves. Our yard seemed enormous then, stretching wide and long, scattered with trees and shrubs just waiting to surrender their treasures. We raked and raked and raked, scratching the earth and gathering leaves into enormous hills, each pile becoming a monument to our determination. We worked together, laughing and scheming, until one mischievous soul would make a run through the middle, scattering our carefully constructed mountain in every direction. For a moment, there was frustration. Then came the laughter, and so we began again.

Eventually, we would line up like runners at the starting gate. Then, with all the reckless abandon childhood could muster, we would race toward those piles and hurl ourselves into them. We jumped, we landed, we rolled, and we buried one another beneath mountains of crunchy autumn leaves. Perhaps that was the best part, the burying. We knew nothing then of the things life would eventually ask us to bury. We knew nothing about loss, disappointment, heartbreak, endings, or the strange ache of watching seasons change. We only knew that being buried in leaves was fun. We would lie there beneath the rustling blanket, surrounded by the sweet evidence of another autumn, and stare upward toward heaven. Perhaps, without knowing it, we were learning something. The leaves were teaching us that everything changes, everything falls, and falling is not always the end. Sometimes it is simply the beginning of becoming something new.

Now, standing beneath these autumn skies of memory, I understand what I could not understand as a child. Change is coming. The broken season is ending. Something new is waiting beneath the surface. Just as spring lies hidden beneath winter's barrenness, new life can be waiting beneath the places in us that look most dead. Scripture reminds me of this truth: “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Perhaps this season, too, has been appointed for a purpose. Perhaps God is asking me not to mourn what He is removing, but to trust what He is preparing.

The question is no longer whether I will change. The question is whether I will release what must fall. Will I slough off the old, or keep clinging to it? Will I cast away what has already served its purpose, or insist on carrying it into another season? Scripture speaks directly to the struggle within me: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing!” (Isaiah 43:18–19). The words feel like a gentle hand upon my shoulder. God is not asking me to deny yesterday. He is asking me not to live there.

The wind answers before I can. “Let go. Let go.” I feel fear rise within me. Insecurity whispers that I need what I am being asked to release. Old wounds remind me of what they cost. Familiar burdens argue that, at least, I know how to carry them. But then I remember the invitation of Jesus: “Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Perhaps letting go is not falling into emptiness. Perhaps it is falling into the arms of God.

Then the wind grows stronger. Leaves whirl around me in a golden cyclone, and suddenly their falling does not look like death. It looks like freedom. They are not being punished for letting go. They are being carried. One by one, they release their hold on the branches and trust the wind to take them where they are going.

And perhaps that is faith. Not knowing where the wind will carry you. Not knowing what the next season will look like. Only knowing that the One who created the wind is still holding you. “Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding” (Proverbs 3:5). The leaves seem to embody that kind of trust. They do not cling to the branch and demand to know where they will land. They simply release.

The leaves seem to call to me now. “Release. Float. Trust. Come dance with us.” And this time, I listen. I loosen my grip. I open my hands. I step into the wind.

Somewhere between the falling leaves and the rising hope within me, I realize that perhaps change is not something to fear after all. Perhaps change is one of the ways God reminds us that what is finished does not have to be carried into what is coming. He makes “all things new” (Revelation 21:5). He brings beauty from ashes, life from death, and hope from places we thought had become barren.

The leaves fall. The earth receives them. Beneath the quiet burial of yesterday, tomorrow is already beginning to grow. What looks like an ending to my earthly eyes may be the preparation for a beginning only God can see.

So I lift my face toward the autumn sky, breathe deeply, and smile. The wind is calling, and this time, I am ready to dance, not because I know where it will carry me, but because I know Who holds me. Change is coming. And by faith, I am ready to let go, trust God, and step into the new thing He is bringing forth.

Heavenly Father, thank You for reminding me through the changing leaves that nothing is wasted in Your hands. Just as the trees release what they can no longer carry, teach me to release what You are asking me to surrender. Give me courage to loosen my grip on old hurts, disappointments, fears, and memories that belong to a season You have already brought to an end.

Lord, when I am afraid of what comes next, remind me that You are already there. When I cannot see what is beneath the surface, help me trust that You are preparing new life in places I thought were barren. Give me the faith to believe that what feels like falling may actually be Your invitation to fly, and what feels like an ending may be the beginning of something You are making beautiful.

Help me not to cling to yesterday simply because it is familiar. Give me discernment to know what to keep, what to bury, and what to release. When fear whispers that I cannot let go, let Your voice be louder: “Trust Me. I am doing a new thing.”

Teach me to trust You as completely as the leaves trust the wind. When You say, “Let go,” help me open my hands. When You say, “Come,” give me courage to follow. When You lead me into an unfamiliar season, remind me that I never walk into it alone.

May I embrace the change You are bringing, not with fear, but with expectation. May I rest in the promise that You work all things together for good, and may my heart remain tender enough to recognize the new life You are causing to spring forth.

Father, take everything I have been carrying and teach me to lay it down at Your feet. Breathe Your peace into the places within me that have been weary. Renew my hope. Restore my joy. And when the winds of change begin to blow, let me lift my face toward You and remember that I am held.

I release. I trust. I surrender. And I step forward in faith.

In the precious name of Jesus, Amen.

Adjusting to a New Life

As I near 70, I’m learning something I resisted for longer than I’d like to admit, my body has its own agenda now.

It doesn’t always move when I want it to move, and it certainly doesn’t move as fast as it used to. Somewhere along the way, “just push through it” quietly turned into “maybe you should sit down for a minute.” And as much as I hate to admit it, those rest breaks? I need them.

Since my knee replacement, things feel different. Not bad… just different. My stamina isn’t what it once was, and I’ve had to come to terms with the fact that I can’t do everything the way I used to. That realization has been humbling. It’s also been a little frustrating, okay, sometimes a lot frustrating.

And then there’s this thought that sneaks in every now and then: I likely have more years behind me than ahead of me.

That one will stop you in your tracks if you let it.

But instead of letting it steal my joy, I’m trying to let it sharpen my focus. I’m learning, slowly, to take life one day at a time and truly enjoy it. Not rush through it. Not wish it away. Just… be in it.

And honestly? This new little life we’ve stepped into is helping me do just that.

We’ve been in our new home for exactly one month and one day. Long enough for the boxes to (mostly) be gone, but not quite long enough to feel like seasoned locals. Our home sits on a quiet cul-de-sac, and behind us is one of my favorite places, our screened-in back porch.

We recently had it finished, and it has quickly become our little sanctuary.

There are large trees that sway in the breeze, offering shade like a gentle hug on warm Georgia days. We sit out there and read, share lunch now and then, and listen to the sounds of nature like it’s our own personal playlist.

And then… there are the geese.

A whole flock of Canadian geese visits the pond behind our house daily, and let me tell you, they do not arrive quietly. There’s nothing subtle about a goose landing. It’s a full production, honking, flapping, splashing… it’s like they’re announcing, “We’re here!” whether you’re ready or not.

We laugh every single time.

Just this morning, a great white egret made an appearance, standing so still and elegant it felt like we were watching something sacred. Moments like that slow me down in the best way.

I’ve spent my whole life with animals, and while we’ve talked about maybe getting a small dog (our fenced yard would make it easy), we’ve both come to the same conclusion, we travel too much. As much as I love animals, I think our pet-owning days may be behind us.

And you know what? That’s okay.

These days, I find just as much joy in the birds that visit our feeders and the wildlife that passes through. There’s something peaceful about appreciating them without needing to chase them down or clean up after them.

(That might be one of the hidden blessings of this season.)

We haven’t made friends yet, but we’ve waved to a few neighbors, and that’s a start. This Sunday, we’re planning to visit a local church, and I’m hopeful we’ll find a place to belong, a community to grow into.

I’ve never been someone who enjoys change. In fact, if I’m being honest, I usually resist it with everything I’ve got.

But this change?

This one feels like a gift.

A quieter pace. A softer rhythm. A chance to breathe a little deeper and notice the things I might have missed before.

I’m even dreaming about planting flowers in the backyard, something that will invite butterflies to join us. Because if this season is teaching me anything, it’s this:

There is still beauty to cultivate.

There is still joy to be found.

And there is still life to be fully lived.

Even if I need to sit down a little more often while I’m doing it.