There are far, far better things ahead than any we leave behind.
I’ve been thinking about my mothers: my adoptive mom who died suddenly at age fifty-five from a pulmonary embolism, and my birth mom who died suddenly at age fifty-nine from a pulmonary embolism.
It messes with me every time I remember that I’m older than my (adoptive) mom ever was, and that I’ll soon surpass my birth mom’s greatest age. I can’t help but consider legacy. Theirs and mine.
John Piper says: “Death is like my car. It takes me where I want to go.” I say yes and amen to that. Truth is, some days, I’m ready to hop in that car and head on out.
And yet there are grandchildren to watch grow, gardens to tend, coffee dates to enjoy, walks in the park to take, thoughts to ponder, words to tap out, cheesecake to eat, sunrises to sit in awe of, and so many more simple happy things that are gifts in this life.
All of which, every single one of which, pales in comparison to what’s to come.
In the meantime, I honour the Giver of them by enjoying the gifts of this life—the small and ordinary things that are, in fact, extraordinary.
My granddaughter’s laughter.
Getting up close and personal with a flower to photograph it.
The changing seasons.
Sitting around a table with a group of women digging into God’s word.
Going for ice cream with my husband.
Soy milky frothy morning coffee.
Voices raised in praise.
There are so many things to relish in this life, even with all its trials and harshness.
On this predawn dark and quiet morning I think about my moms and what they left behind, and what I hope to leave behind and, to the best of my Imperfect ability, resolve again to live accordingly.
And I whisper words of gratitude and awe and it is well.
Soli Deo gloria.