Forty Seven Seasons

This morning I found myself standing quietly in our entryway, looking through the window toward the porch and the neighborhood beyond.

Nothing particularly remarkable was happening outside. The sun was shining. The trees were still green. An American flag hung from the porch. Cars sat along the street, and another ordinary day was beginning.

But upstairs, I could hear Karen singing.

She was in her craft room, working away on a diamond dot picture of horses and sunflowers. She has been working on it for quite some time and, truth be told, I think she is more than ready to be finished with it. Yet there she was—placing another little dot, listening to some of the Christian women whose music she enjoys, and singing right along with them.

And I simply stood there and listened. Something about that moment touched me.

Perhaps it was the simplicity of it. Perhaps it was hearing the voice of the woman with whom I have shared nearly forty-seven years of life. Perhaps it was realizing that after all these years, joy can still sneak up on you in the most ordinary places.

Whatever it was, a little moisture found its way into my eyes.

This has been a difficult year for us. We said goodbye to our little buddy, Miko, and there remains an empty place in our home—and in our hearts—that we still feel deeply. We miss him. I suppose we always will.

And yet, standing there this morning, I was reminded of something. Joy and sorrow have an interesting way of living in the same house.

Over forty-seven years, Karen and I have known both. There have been mountaintops and valleys, laughter and tears, beginnings and goodbyes. There have been grand adventures, certainly—but some of the sweetest memories have come from moments that would hardly seem worth mentioning to anyone else.

A song drifting down the stairs.

A project spread across a craft-room table.

Sunlight coming through an old window.

A little dog who once followed us everywhere.

A cup of coffee. A shared laugh. A hand held. A prayer whispered.

The little things.

Maybe that is one of the gifts of growing older together. You begin to realize that life isn't made beautiful only by the great moments. More often, it is made beautiful by a thousand ordinary ones that we were fortunate enough to notice.

On September 29th, Karen and I will celebrate 47 years of marriage.

Forty-seven seasons of discovering that even in the midst of hurt, there is still beauty. Even after loss, there is still laughter. Even when life doesn't look quite the way we hoped it might, there are still countless little gifts placed along the road by a gracious Creator.

Sometimes you simply have to stand still long enough to notice them.

Karen, thank you for joining me through these forty-seven seasons. And perhaps that is my prayer for whatever seasons remain before us:

Let's keep discovering the simple beauty our blessed Creator has so graciously given.