This is a story about the strange, tender place between what was and what’s next.

I’m sitting in the cutest pink coffee shop.  I am here because I needed a change of scenery, something to help me structure and put into words where I am right now.   

A place of uncertainty.

Where clarity feels just out of reach.

Here’s my attempt to put it into words.

When Jeff and I were young, we decided to have our kids because we figured we’d have grandkids while we still had youth on our side.  We wanted to be an active part of all the changes in our kids’ lives.  Yes, youth is where it is at, we both agreed. 

And so it was.

We had three kids before thirty.

I want to say we’ve loved all the seasons of their growing-up years.  But, if I’m honest, there were some really hard times folded into the really good ones.  Overall, they were the best years of my life, and I want to say I wouldn’t change a thing, but I might skip some of the hard stuff if given a chance.  LOL!   It’s a good thing the Lord makes those choices for us; He knows what we need.

Many of you know my boys left for California two and a half weeks ago.  It was heart-wrenching and wonderful all at once.  The tears have come in stops and starts ever since.  I am so proud of them as they trail blaze this new life for themselves, but I miss having them close. 

That has to be how every parent who’s raised kids and set them out in the world feels.

It’s nothing new.

Just new to me.

This morning I was sitting on the couch in a room right off our kitchen.  It’s a space with many windows, and it’s my favorite place in the morning.  I was sipping coffee when I realized the overwhelming feeling right now is exhaustion.

I’m tired. 

I don’t think I realized how tired I really was until after the boys left. 

I know sorrow makes us tired. I remember that clearly after my mom passed.

But this is different.

I am tired from the push and pull of raising children.

The physical cost of giving it all for someone else.  The emotional toll of trying to make the right decisions in hopes they’ll head in the right direction.  The prayers of desperation and scriptures of hope that keep you grounded as you watch them step out on their own. 

It’s exhausting.

Oh, it was worth it. 

But it’s been a long road.

It feels like I’m standing at the end of a pier waving as their ships set sail.

Once the boats are out of sight, I turn and walk down the pier, wondering where I’m heading next. 

Who am I now?

What does life look like?

So many of you have already faced this, and now it’s my turn.

The sorrow runs deep, but there’s also a joy that I can’t quite explain.  When the house is really quiet, I feel the emptiness.   I want to find exactly what I should be doing now, but all I can see is where my feet are currently planted.  It’s like I don’t know what step to take next.   

I also find myself enjoying things I’d forgotten about, like sitting in a pink coffee shop pouring my heart out in words, walking the trail along the creek, and being outside on a sunny day.  The love of life runs deep as well. 

Rest sounds good to me. 

But what does rest look like? 

A nap?

Maybe I’m looking for peace, or maybe this is grief, or maybe I need to get a job.

I just don’t know.

As I write this, I feel so vulnerable.

A silent message floating in our culture is that strong women don’t struggle like this.  They know their purpose and live purposefully.

But is it possible to be strong but unsure?

To stand but not know which way to turn?

I am so thankful for my faith right now.

Thankful for family and friends who love and pray as we go through all the changes of life.

This wilderness place is real, but I know it won’t be where my story ends. 

I fully believe the Lord has more for me, and I will hold onto Him while I wait.

For now, I’m taking each day as it comes.

Currently waiting in a coffee shop, things could definitely be harder.