Good-Byes

We said good-bye to our very good dog last week. Our Maple girl was the sweetest presence in our home and hearts for nearly eleven years. And the hardest thing about these pups is they do not live long enough. Not by a long shot.

A few days later I said farewell to a very good friend. Not a forever good-bye, but a change of address, several states away, and a certain end to the way things have been. Twenty years, give or take, Angie and I have been getting together every few weeks for coffee and continuity of conversation. There’s no other human outside my husband with whom I’ve shared my deepest thoughts in such a continuous fashion. And now that season has come to an end.

This morning I was reading my Bible with windows open, enjoying the coolest temps we’ve had this summer. At some point I closed my eyes, pondering or praying, and I heard a sound like rocks tumbling from the bed of a truck. My first instinct was to wonder which of my lake friends was having work done. But wait. When I opened my eyes I had this weird realization of having changed locations. Not lake, but river.

It’s strange, all this change.

Yesterday morning Kyle and I sat on our balcony, drinking coffee, and shedding a few tears. We talked about our dog, and our marriage, and our season of life. Some of our words were hard. I found myself lamenting. Dumping. Raw thoughts in a time of upheaval. My husband listened, and he heard me. We prayed. And something lifted. By evening’s end my soul had shifted from heavy to hopeful. And this morning I told Kyle—

I feel new.

I feel like we’re starting something new. A whole new season at a new address. A new way of being “the two of us.” Here. And I dare to wonder, might the best be yet to come?

For the first time since moving I began imagining new rhythms. I am a gal who likes RHYTHM. Which is probably the hardest thing about new seasons. At first everything feels wild and unpredictable. You’re never quiet sure if you’re coming or going. But eventually you’re able to sleuth out a few patterns. A bit of order. And sure, there’s still a half a garage to unload, a storeroom to unbox, carpet meant to be installed last week, left willy nilly, unfinished. But there’s also this sense of permission to settle in and establish a bit of a schedule.

I dig through storage for my 2026 “old school” calendar, which I fail to find. I make note to purchase another, because Kyle and I need to see it in writing to bring it to order. Days marked in ink for caring for grandkids and meeting with our small group. Hosting friends, and celebrations with family. Driving a granddaughter to dance. Teaching piano. Appointments with parents. Speaking deadlines. Baseball games for a grandson.

I tell Kyle about this guy on a podcast, encouraging his listeners to “approach new decisions with confidence.” And my very first thought is—

It’s time to write that book. The one I’ve been pondering for a good while now, fretting the logistics of publishing and marketing and purpose. But hearing in my spirit this holy whisper—none of that matters, just write it.

So yes. I am a writer, and writing, too, must have its rhythm.

The air this morning has a hint of fall and I thank God for one more month of summer. But autumn air always seems to stir anticipation, and my spirit feels this, too. Something new that’s coming on the breeze of all these changes. Something good.

Something hopeful.

May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. (Romans 15:13 NIV)