I sat at Starbucks drinking my coffee at 5:45 this morning. Late last night I put my husband and our four younger kids on an airplane, and this morning I said goodbye to my oldest as he left for a week long backpacking trip. The first quiet aloneness I’ve had in months. The air felt damp and warm, calming my restlessness with the reminder that summer vacation has finally arrived. The street was quiet, peaceful, and intensely familiar. I’ve known this block for almost 16 years — the main intersection in the small metro NYC town I’ve come to love.
And I was struck. Struck by the peace I felt in the familiarity. The security I breathed into as I felt the air and watched the sunrise and heard the train chug behind me. Birds were flying and bees were buzzing and in that moment the world felt safe and lovely. But yesterday I sat again in an oncologist’s office with my dear friend, pondering the treatment options that represent the super-thin line we all walk between life and death. And just this week, three good friends, all women, all younger than me, lost a parent suddenly. And my 16 year old is off to hike 8000 feet and my 14 year old has walking pneumonia and my 2.5 half year old corrects me any time I call her “little.”
I feel like quiet of this morning is a rare pause in life’s breakneck speed. The future is zooming toward me faster than I want it to, and I’m holding on for dear life. Children growing up, parents aging, the fragile balance we attempt to strike everyday between living and loving, surviving and thriving. Between the now and the not yet. We walk a thin line.
So I hold to the unchanging hand. I trust that the giver of all good gifts is walking this tenuous journey with me. And I seek true security, true peace, in the promise that the one who created it all will bring it to glorious completion in Christ Jesus.