The Empty Nest

It’s been one long month since we moved our youngest to college. So, for the first time in 27 years, our home is childless – the empty nest, as they say.

Homes—and lives—that are full of children, like ours used to be, are noisy, messy, happy places. Not unlike actual nests that nurture and protect baby birds while they grow and learn. Nests should be cozy and safe, carefully crafted and tended to by the parents, to give their brood the best chance to thrive in a strange, harsh world.

But it’s easy for mama bird to get so focused on feathering her nest and feeding her young that she forgets nests were never meant to last forever.

Nests serve a specific purpose for a short period of time. Our chicks’ time to fly comes before we are ready. But no matter how awkwardly or auspiciously they leave the nest, we are there, nudging and encouraging them to spread their wings.

If I’m honest, I’m not a big fan of this empty nest so far. It’s too quiet, too clean.

I think I’m supposed to feel free but mostly, I just feel sad and stifled.

Even if we love our husbands and enjoy our careers—which I do—there’s still an emptiness of the soul when the last child leaves that’s hard to put into words.

The first child going to college is a loss, no doubt. You miss the child and worry yourself sick and adjust your daily routine and navigate the transition from day-to-day authority figure to from-afar mentor.

But the baby’s departure signifies all that and so much more. You have completed the 20 to 35 years (depending on the number and age span of your children) known as the childrearing season of life. It’s the end of an era, really.

Every mother’s noble intention is to raise children who become honorable adults, and we all know the time is coming when that part of our job will end. Let’s get real—none of us wants our kids living in our basement until they’re 35! Yet the death of that role still sneaks up on us, and we are left shell shocked and crushed under the weight of the loss.

But as uncomfortable and inconvenient as it may be, the only way to move through loss is to grieve. That’s the bad news.

We’ve all experienced loss in many forms, and we know all too well grief takes a tremendous amount of time and effort, what with the aimless wandering around your own home, tears stinging your eyes at the slightest provocation and memories flooding your unsuspecting mind with hurricane force.

It takes seemingly superhuman strength to slow down and give sadness the wide berth it requires to work itself through.

It hurts, and it’s hard.

But it’s not the end.

God’s plans and purposes for you didn’t start—or stop—with motherhood. Underneath your identity as a mom, there’s still the you He created.

You may have forgotten who you are, what you enjoy or why you’re here. But rest assured, God hasn’t.

It has been my experience that the books and articles lie. They say the empty nest is a new chapter, like it’s a continuation of the previous two decades with a minor plot twist. But it doesn’t feel like a new chapter to me; it feels like an entirely different book.

So, it’s time…

Time to write a new story, letting fresh vision wash over me and youthful energy fill me.

Time to practice stillness and surrender to solitude, even if it feels suffocating at first.

Time to give up the excuses for not pursuing my passions and just start.

Time to release my children into God’s hands, where they’ve been all along.

Time to let go of regrets and rest in the freedom of having done my best.

Time to redefine the parent-child relationship and enjoy the unfolding of the plans and purposes reserved for these now young adults.

Time to revive friendships gone stale through years of busyness and daily demands.

Time to embrace who God made me to be.

The Bible reminds us in Ecclesiastes that there is a right time to hold on and another to let go. This is my season of letting go.

So, I’m trying to accept the ache and sit with the sadness. I’m learning to let the grief wash over me, sometimes in waves. But as I take baby steps to gently cleanse the wounds, I find comfort in my daily rituals and rich relationships and the simple pleasures God—and life—are always offering us if we will just open our hands and hearts.

Then slowly, steadily, I can feel the fog lifting, the light shining through and I swear I can make out the faintest outline of my new life on the horizon just ahead.

Tricked by God

Have you ever felt tricked by God?

I sure have.

You know what I mean. First, you felt a dream bubbling up from the deepest part of your heart. You prayed about it, and it still felt right. Then synchronicity shows up and pulls you ever closer to your dream in weird ways that for sure can only be orchestrated by God.

You’re like a kid at her own birthday party, bursting with joy that the gifts inside all those boxes with the beautiful bows are yours.

Then right before the confetti rains down and the fireworks light up the sky, it all blows up.

Your dreams crash and burn right in front of your face.

You just knew you should open that small business. So, you took the proverbial leap of faith, only to run out of money and confidence.

Jaded and skittish, you went on that blind date anyway. You fell in love and then fell victim to his violent temper.

How could this happen? Where was God, and where did the communication break down?

You were content with the status quo. But he stirred your soul, and you took a step, trusting He would be there to steady you. Now you feel trapped and tricked.

I remember the day I took my oldest daughter to get her kindergarten vaccines. You have to understand Mackenzie’s utter delight at the mere prospect of going to school with the big kids. She had loved books since she was a baby, and nothing excited her more than the sheer joy of learning well, anything.

She was willing to do whatever it took to cross the great chasm from pre-K to actual K. No price was too high to pay.

But she didn’t really understand the whole shots thing. She was only five, after all. In my defense, I had tried to explain that there would be a few little pokes by a lovely nurse who would then promptly give her a sucker and present her with her long-awaited passport to kindergarten.

We both put on our brave faces and dutifully followed the nurses’ instructions. There were two of them, which was my first inkling that my detailed explanation to my daughter about what was about to transpire may have been slightly flawed. They told Mackenzie to straddle my lap such that our faces were just inches apart.

Just a couple more seconds and a couple of tiny pokes, they chirped. Mackenzie looked resolute. I was terrified.

Then each nurse swabbed an arm, picked up two needles, and collectively proceeded to stick my daughter four times in rapid succession.

Her eyes instantly opened wide, then filled with tears. She registered the shock, then the physical pain. But what pained me then, and still pains me almost 20 years later is the piercing look of betrayal in my daughter’s eyes.

Those innocent, round blue eyes that I had looked into lovingly since the day she was born screamed, “HOW COULD YOU LET THAT HAPPEN TO ME?! You were right here. You watched the injustice of it all. You claim to love me, but you allowed – maybe even caused – me to experience pain.”

Sound familiar?

Mackenzie was left to wrestle with the same questions for which we demand answers from God, the cosmic clash between who she knew me to be – a loving parent who adored and protected her – and the suffering I sanctioned.

Her young mind couldn’t comprehend that my seeming cruelty was actually an act of love, an attempt to save her from something far worse than the four needle sticks – deadly diseases.

I know how she feels, and so do you.

How – and why – do we continue to trust God and exercise our faith when He seems distant at best and callous at worst?

We make the same decision Mackenzie had to make on kindergarten shot day.

She had to look beyond the confusion of her current circumstances, dig deep and cling to the truth of who she knew me to be. We had a history together. I not only told her I loved her, but I demonstrated my love every day in ways big and small. In fact, my love for her was – and is – so big that she couldn’t comprehend it, and when her heart hurts, mine does too.

So, while her wounds were still fresh and our eyes were spilling tears, I hugged her close and assured her that her dream and future would be worth the pain. Promise.

Still sniffling with her head down, she half nodded, reluctantly, like she didn’t believe it but desperately wanted the promise to be true.

I lifted her gently off my lap and set her feet firmly on the floor. I folded her sweet, soft hand into mine and together, we walked slowly, steadily out the glass door and straight into the warmth of the summer sun.

Your Body Knows

For most of my life, I have ignored—even resented—the messages my body was sending me. My body was something to be mastered, overcome, not respected.

I shut down hunger signals by shoving packaged plastic, trying to pass as food, down my throat. When my body said sleep, I drank more caffeine. (Sleep was for losers.)

When my bladder was full, or my head ached, or my temper ran short, I just pushed through. I had stuff to do. Lots of stuff.

The Sabbath was just another day for progress, and the American Dream was swallowing me whole.

My body tried to tell me I was sick. First, it whispered subtle hints like muscle aches that didn't make sense.

I paid no attention.

Then the communication got clearer—debilitating fatigue (More caffeine should do the trick!) and unexplained weight changes. I turned a deaf ear.

That's when my body screamed at me in the form of fainting spells and erratic heart rhythms. I made an appointment, more out of fear than responsiveness, angry at my body for betraying me.

The doctor's diagnosis was stress; the prescription was less diet soda. I was thankful to have some direction but still at a loss.

One of my gifts is overcomplicating well, everything.

My health was no exception. After the wake-up call from the first doctor, I sprang into action with a long list of self-imposed rules and expectations, my very own stone tablets inscribed with the commandments for my new healthy life.

Thou shalt eat only chicken breasts and fresh vegetables.

Thou shalt rise at 5am and work out to the point of exhaustion every day, no exceptions.

Thou shalt not succumb to the creamy deliciousness of ice cream or the rich warmth of lasagna.

Thou shalt not consider enjoyment or personal preference when choosing food or exercise options.

You get the idea. I undertook an outwardly healthier approach to beating my body into submission, with different but still damaging results.

Why, as women, are we so afraid to lean into our intuition and listen intently and compassionately to our bodies, like we would to a close friend?

Why do we insist on surviving on sugar, caffeine, and over-the-top workouts, instead of responding promptly and gently to our bodies' simple requests?

Nourishment

Rest

Connection

Peace

If we truly want to be healthy, we will attune ourselves to the wisdom God has built into these intelligent, intricate carriers of our souls, otherwise known as our bodies.

I'm still learning. It will likely be a lifelong process.

But my death sentence and subsequent health journey are proving to be patient teachers, reminding me that I can trust my body's messages, even—maybe especially—the painful ones.

My body and yours know instinctively what, when, and how much to eat. Our bodies know when they are thirsty, sick, or exhausted. Incidentally, they also know when we need to cry or when a good laugh is just what the doctor ordered. Trapped trauma and festering wounds? Yep. It knows about those, too.

But how about some good news?

Eating foods we enjoy is permissible. Moving to the rhythm of activities that make our souls come alive counts. Our businesses won't fold if we take a sick day. Sometimes, slow is the kindest thing we can do for ourselves, paying energy dividends we can't experience while we're running fast and hard.

Our bodies aren't machines to be mastered. They are the exquisite, masterfully planned, custom-made dwellings God designed for us to live out our years on earth. They are oriented toward healing and, more importantly, toward the Healer.

So, let's start by listening. Then slowly, steadily, we can learn to respond to our bodies lovingly, as the sacred temples they were always meant to be.