Hope That Fills Empty Spaces

finding HOPE in change

[I’m cheating. Today’s post was supposed to be a hope-themed lectio divina, and I will share that on Friday. I’m still figuring out the mix of content here without overwhelming your inbox, but I want to remain open to times when an essay shows up on my heart and needs to be written, despite my precious schedule. So this is your hope-themed content for today. Make sure you’re subscribed and upgraded so you won’t miss a thing!]

You would think it would get easier. And it does. I’m always reassuring moms saying goodbye to big kids for the first time that it does get easier.

But it stays hard, too.

After she went back to school, I spent the weekend thinking Gabby was probably in the next room or about to come down the stairs. All through the holidays, she was my in-house female connection and support—my go-to for opinions on nail color, wedding plans, shopping plans, or menu planning for special gatherings.

“Are you making that special dip and chips without me?” she gasped on her last day as I unpacked groceries in the kitchen, and she packed her bags to return to school. A 4-hour plane ride away.

“Yes, but we had plenty of parties while you were here.”

We did do that. Nonstop noise. Nonstop food. Nonstop chaos, the joyful kind where toddlers are pulling ornaments from the Christmas tree and dipping fingers into the rum cake batter. I ran my dishwasher 3 times a day, every day, for a week. My back and shoulders ached every night as I fell into bed full of good conversation, full of good food, and happy to fall asleep in a home that felt full too—bursting at the seams sometimes, how it always was, how it was supposed to be.

But it’s not full anymore. The day after Gabby left, I packed the Christmas decorations and dragged our browning, shedding 12-foot Christmas tree across the snow-covered field and into the cleared circle in the woods where we light bonfires. Fodder for a future celebration.

And that’s part of what makes it easier. I know there will be future gatherings. There will be future celebrations. We’ll see Gabby in Florida this winter as she finishes her last semester, and then she’ll be home in the spring for three full, tumultuous weeks before her wedding. I know what those days will be like.

I looked at the boxes of Christmas and wedding gifts she left neatly packed in her room, next to the bottom bunk where she slept for so many years, where she once stuck kitten stickers to the bedposts, and I was in awe. Of the goodness and generosity of God.

When the kids were all little, we once brought them to the local thrift store and told them they could each pick out one stuffed animal. A rare and special treat. 4-year-old Gabby chose a purple-maned unicorn and, on the drive home, she announced its name: Unicorn-Magic-I-Love-God. A name full of every good thing she knew.

I was grateful she knew those good things. And I’m grateful she still does, in even bigger ways. That’s another part of what makes it easier. Big kids do big things. They find their way in the world, gain independence, do good work, fall in love, and make plans for the Unicorn-Magic-I-Love-God that will be their future.

The house is emptier because their lives are fuller. We could never contain it all, and we wouldn’t want to anyway because there’s so much to love about this quieter season of watching them grow. Life changes, but love remains. It’s what fills the empty spaces and makes the goodbyes a little easier to say. There are endings, and those do sting, but there are even more beginnings, and those fill me with hope.

After leaving the Christmas tree in our field, I started the walk back to the house. Snow glittered and crunched beneath my boots and an expansive blue sky hung brilliantly overhead. I breathed in icy air, squinted into the sun, and gave thanks for little girl princesses, unicorns, magic, and loving God. I recalled what God promises us—a good measure, put into our laps, pressed down, shaken together, and running over—and I gave thanks for that, too. 🌷