I have walked my own path,
gathering wildflowers as I went,
until my footsteps pressed a road.
There is no detour around sorrow,
no shortcut to wisdom,
but there is gratitude
and grace
along the way.
My fire no longer burns out quickly
in flares for attention,
but glows steady
as a kitchen hearth.
I have sat with silence
until I could translate its language.
I no longer feel the need to explain myself—
especially to those
who have purposed themselves
not to understand.
I have been shipwrecked,
rescued my crew,
and come up breathing.
When the winds roar,
I ride them now—anchored, steady—
because I know the truth holds.
I know what I love, and I savor it unapologetically—
the salty-sweet scent of my husband’s skin,
my peaceful sleep when all of our children are home,
the first kiss of strong morning coffee,
the slow, even burn of a good cigar,
the faithful reciprocity of real friendship,
the geometrical seduction of orchids,
the way my tears keep time to certain hymns,
the way my Bible opens to Psalms,
the trust that grows from changed behavior and forgiveness,
when someone truly cares about the answer,
and the powerful courage of righteous rebellion.
I will always be a student —
but I have graduated
into a school
built by time
and experiences.
When something new meets my tongue,
I have the framework
to taste it fully,
to observe its complexities,
and to know, instinctively,
how to use its flavor in a recipe.
My aging body—
less obedient, more honest—
speaks now in quiet aches,
bloodwork,
macros,
and hard-won resilience.
It calls me to tend to it with discipline and rest,
instead of brute force,
stress,
and energy drinks.
I purpose to keep it strong—
because I finally see its design
as holy
and I
its steward.
These hips have bore five children
(and lost one before I knew their name).|
These hands have welcomed newborns,
and held vigil for the dying.
In these small acts,
I consecrated the ordinary.
And my husband—
he knows every freckle,
every fold,
and reads the map of my battle scars
like sacred text.
He still runs his fingers through my silver hair
as though it were still red.
His patience is deeper than my ocean.
His laughter is my heartbeat.
He laces his fingers with mine,
asks the blessing on our food,
and on the hands that prepared it
(and squeezes my hand
in acknowledgement).
His nearness is home,
no matter where we are.
My dearest friends
are not the kind who go to parties to be seen,
but to celebrate with others,
and who find the quiet guest in the corner
and welcome them
with encouragement
and belonging –
and who stay to help with clean-up
until every last red Solo cup
is accounted for.
I have learned that good people come and go—
sometimes for reasons,
sometimes for none at all.
I hold each person in reverence—
for there are no mere mortals.
I press on…
Shaping the path with my footsteps,
mending the cracks,
pulling the thorns,
hoping for the joy of someday sharing it with grandchildren,
mindful that the road may remain,
though a hundred years from now,
no one will recall who forged it.