Life seems fast and furious lately. In fact, it has even rendered me wordless—the writer’s version of speechless—as everything from blossoming life to advancing years invades at once. Sometimes it feels a bit scary. With eyes of faith, I find myself riding the waves with some mix of exhilaration and terror, hanging on to the beautiful gift of life, in all its unscripted glory.
Mostly, there are joys: My married daughter will be a young mother in two short weeks, and I will become a grandmother at the relatively young age of 51. A long-awaited home renovation will be underway soon, so I’ll finally have a muscular kitchen and pantry. My husband and I find ourselves five years from an empty nest; and 27 years into this marriage adventure, we’ve not yet lost our minds.
By God’s grace, our children are, for the moment, free of a variety of universally unpleasant brands of youthful drama. The young married girl is plowing ahead into family life. The teens are making good grades, playing baseball, playing soccer, and mastering the long jump. The college kids are thriving yet shrouded in some rose-colored mystery; nonetheless, they are slowly maturing. They’ve fine-tuned their majors but focus their remaining energies on basketball brackets or dating—subjects worthy of a separate article.
However, I would be dishonest if I didn’t admit that the happy cacophany weighs me down sometimes. With six children, growing fatigue and an aging mother, I suddenly feel pulled impossibly between eight different life stages and their unique concerns. The middle schooler is just hitting puberty and its famous moods, while my mother can’t make sense of her TV anymore. I’m awakened by hot flashes, while my daughter prepares to be awakened by a newborn. My younger daughters compare skin products, while I dream of laser surgery. There’s a baby shower, baseball game, elder care discussion, soccer trip, prom party and teacher conference—and don’t forget the colonoscopy!
Above it all hangs the most pressing concern of all: Do my children know and love God? Did we teach them well? Are they living for his glory, or will they be consumed by the noisy darkness?
This morning—amid yet more joyful news, mixed with some resultant fretting—I read this in I Peter 1:24-25:
“For all flesh is like grass
and all its glory like the flower of grass.
The grass withers, and the flower falls,
but the word of the Lord remains forever.”
At midlife, one grows familiar with withering grass and fading flowers. The glories we chased in our twenties had their moment but passed. Someone else broke our record, surpassed our reputation, or attracted bigger applause. Our accumulated earthly treasures disappoint us, too—the boat’s in disrepair, golf clubs collect dust, and nobody wants the old “custom” sofa we’re selling. Even if we’re blessed with vitality and health, the reality is that our trophy days are behind us, in earthly terms.
Willingly or not, we will discover that life is about so much more; it’s not about the now, but about the forever. This is good news for tired parents; more importantly, though, it’s the only lasting treasure we can pass to our children. Like us, they need more than earth’s fading flowers.
When I think of forever, I think of stars. Genesis records their creation, and Hebrews reminds us that God “upholds the universe by the word of his power.” His forever words sustain a cosmos that confounds our puny minds and powerful telescopes yet blankets us in velvety calm. God’s gospel, his promises, his creation, his plan for each of us and our children—all are upheld and guaranteed by his forever words.
On my way to bed the other night, I stopped to stare out a window overlooking the westward sky. The night was sparkling clear, with Mars in view. I was stuck that I’d taken this sky for granted. As a teenager, I’d sit out in my driveway at night, staring up into the mystery. On summer nights at the beach, I’ve taken my kids to sit up in the lifeguard chair and survey constellations hanging over the ocean. Nowadays, I’m surprised to see they’re still there—majestic, quiet, unmoved by my schedule—when I take out the garbage at night.
On this particular night, though—during a moment when I decided to crane my neck and peer further through window pane—I saw a shooting star. Was this phenomenon still happening—and despite elections, doctors’ appointments, countless forms, tiresome chores, endless tuitions, elderly moms, and soccer trips? While I’d been darting around and playing life’s whack-a-mole, a sea of stars still held court in my backyard planetarium.
Just as those stars are upheld by our faithful God, so are our very lives. All his promises are yes and amen, even when life’s inevitable clouds—and even its happy, blinding sunshine—obscure their glory. God is faithful; and when I find myself wordless and weary, the universe still proclaims.
So shall my word be that goes out from my mouth;
it shall not return to me empty,
but it shall accomplish that which I purpose,
and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
Hebrews 55:11
And I am sure of this, that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion at the day of Jesus Christ.
Philippians 1:6
This originally appeared on Restoring Truth.
