Unknowing. IDK. Hopeful Uncertainties For the adult years of my 60 years I've thought wisdom meant having the answers. Study harder. Learn more. Figure it out. Be the expert. Our world applauds certainty. We admire people who know. But the older I get, the more I’m certain that real wisdom begins somewhere entirely different. Maybe wisdom begins with unknowing. Grief has a way of dismantling certainty. It taught me that tomorrow isn’t certain , that plans are fragile, and that control is an illusion. It strips away assumptions I didn’t even realize I was carrying. It has certainly done that for me. Grief aged me. Not simply because the years have passed, but because loss changed the landscape of my life slab dab in the middle of uncertainties . It has weathered my body , softened my heart, and untangled so much of who I thought I had to be. Ironically, I think it has also remade me. These days, I’m less interested in having the right answers and more interested in asking better questions. Less interested in fixing someone’s pain than sitting quietly beside it. Less interested in performing strength than practicing presence. I’ve discovered that wisdom doesn’t always arrive with certainty. Sometimes it arrives as curiosity. Sometimes as compassion. Sometimes as silence. And sometimes, I think, wisdom looks a lot like being willing to say, “I don’t know.” Or, as I say it these days: IDK. And you know what? IDK is surprisingly liberating. It’s a thought. A feeling. A verbal declaration. Sometimes even a perfectly reasonable reaction to this strange, beautiful, unpredictable world we inhabit as uncertain humans. IDK. what tomorrow holds how my story will end. I don’t know why some things happen - - why some people stay, why others leave, why some of the hardest chapters find their way into lives that seemed to be going just fine. I don’t know. And maybe I don’t have to. Because there is a difference between uncertainty and hopelessness. I’m beginning to embrace what I think of as hopeful uncertainty—the willingness to step into what I cannot yet see while still believing there may be something beautiful awaiting me. I wander as I wonder. I wonder as I wander. And maybe there is more freedom in that than I once understood. Perhaps growing older isn’t about accumulating more knowledge. Perhaps it’s about slowly laying down everything I thought I knew until what remains is humility… Presence… Grace… and enough curiosity to keep me wandering. At sixty, I don’t have the neatly mapped-out future I once imagined and foolishly tried to create. And for perhaps the first time, I’m okay with that. I don’t need to know exactly where the road leads. I just want to be awake enough to notice. Open enough to be surprised. Brave enough to keep walking. Hopeful enough to wonder what might be around the next bend. And yet, in the middle of all this uncertainty, there are some things I do know. I know God’s love is certain. I know God's care is certain. I know God's promises are certain, even when my circumstances are not. I may not know what tomorrow holds, but I know Who holds tomorrow. I may not understand every turn in the road, but I don’t have to walk it alone. So perhaps “IDK” isn’t a declaration of defeat. Maybe it’s an invitation to trust. I don’t know. But God does. And somehow, that’s enough. As I step into whatever years God grants me next, I want to honor my beautiful, brave, and brilliant Bob not simply by remembering what I’ve lost, but by living out what I’ve learned. If grief has taught me anything, it’s this: The goal isn’t to become the person I was before loss. The goal is to become someone who loves more deeply, notices more carefully, laughs more freely, and lives more gratefully because of it. Maybe that’s wisdom. Maybe wisdom isn’t knowing. Maybe wisdom is knowing that I don’t know—and choosing to wander, wonder, and live fully anyway. With hope. With grace. With faith. With a little holy curiosity about what comes next. May it be, Lord. May it be.

As my sixtieth birthday approaches, I’ve been thinking about the dash. Not the one that will someday appear between 1966 and whatever year follows my name, but the countless dashes we live through. Those dashes hold far more than birthdays. They hold the lives we’ve lived. The people we’ve loved. The dreams we’ve chased. The losses we’ve endured. When we think of grief, we usually think of death. But grief is so much bigger than funerals. It’s the death of who we used to be. The passing of time. The relationship we thought would last forever. The career that ended. The dream that quietly slipped away. The healthy body that changed. The certainty we once carried. Every one of those endings deserves to be grieved. Yet so many of them go unnoticed because they don’t come with casseroles, sympathy cards, or memorial services. Grief often whispers. It doesn’t always announce itself with tears. Sometimes it shows up as fatigue. Sometimes as irritability. Sometimes as longing. Sometimes as silence. Looking back over nearly sixty years, I realize I’ve experienced many deaths while still very much alive. Some I welcomed. Some nearly broke me. All of them changed me. Perhaps that’s what the dash really represents. Not simply the years between birth and death, but the countless endings and beginnings that quietly shape who we become. Maybe the measure of a life isn’t found in the dates engraved on a stone. Maybe it’s found in how faithfully we lived the space between them.

It's been said, "Sixty is Nifty"! I'll be putting this to the test in just a little over a week. Since my grief journey began 5 years ago celebrating birthdays, New Year’s Eve, even my graduation in 2022 felt like luxuries I couldn’t emotionally—or financially—afford. It became easier to let those days pass like any other. This is what felt safest. But this year feels different. I'm so ready to celebrate the gift of life. The beauty of serving others . Maybe because I’m different. Older, but wiser. Bruised, but healing. Wounded, but still carrying on. I’m beginning to think celebrating isn’t about having the life I expected. Maybe it’s about honoring the life I have. It’s about looking back at every impossible season and quietly saying, “I did that.” “I survived that.” “And I’m still here.” And maybe a little holy irreverence, too. When life insists on throwing ugly punches, perhaps the best response is to meet them with beauty—and, whenever possible, a healthy sense of humor. There is such freedom in this! This different-than-planned life has taught me more than the life I once imagined ever could. It’s teaching me to show up despite heartache, choose presence over perfection, and live with fewer regrets and less worry. Maybe that’s the real gift of sixty. Not finally having life figured out… But finally learning to simply be.. So here I am! This is me. Almost Sixty. Surprised to still be standing. Grateful that I am. Ready to make new memories. This isn’t exactly the life I dreamed of, planned for, or worked toward. Somehow, it’s become the life that has shaped me and I'm grateful for every beautiful, brutal, and brutiful moment . There is such freedom in that part of it all!! So, this week, this month, this year. I'm gonna create a little nifty

To be continued . . .

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning…” — Lamentations 3:22-23 Just as promised. Just as expected. Even with many clouds in the way… Dawn comes. Some mornings, like today, the light doesn’t burst across the sky. Instead, it quietly peeks through, patiently sharing the stage with lingering clouds. And this morning, the moon—still hanging on. “God bless the moon, God bless me…” Smiled because I’ve felt like that moon. Holding on. Hardly noticeable. Barely letting go of the darkness. Trying to shine while waiting for the light. In much the same way, I bring my darkness to God. And just as promised… just as expected… just as He has always done… His light begins to peek through. Not always all at once. Not always without resistance. Sometimes His light arrives alongside the clouds. My clouds. The ones I’d rather not carry. The ones I’d rather hurry past. The ones I pray would disappear. Yet even these clouds are purposeful. Necessary. Unavoidable. I’ve learned I don’t have to wait for a cloudless sky before I begin walking toward the light. I simply keep walking expectantly toward dawn, receiving God’s light however it chooses to reveal itself. Sometimes it is only a sliver. Sometimes it is enough. Then, over time, the calm I longed for—and the peace so many prayed for alongside me—came Outta Nowhere. Just as promised. The sun slowly peeked through… and then burst forward with breathtaking grandeur. The clouds didn’t completely disappear. Some are still there. But they no longer define the sky. Those welcomed rays—both figurative and literal—have illuminated countless moments of love, hope, peace, and unexpected joy despite my darkness. Despite my grief. Despite my brokenness. Despite the clouds. God has used His light to reveal things I once overlooked: quiet mercies, faithful friends, unexpected strength, and glimpses of beauty I could never have seen from the darkness alone. The strength within me was never mine to manufacture. It has always come from God. There were seasons when He felt hidden. Silent. Distant. But He was never absent. He was waiting for me in the dawn. And just as promised… the sun came out again. Lord, thank You that Your promises are not dependent upon clear skies. Teach us to keep walking toward the light, even when the clouds linger. Help us trust that dawn is coming—not because we can see it, but because You have promised it. Amen.

No doubt Disney World always has been and always will be "The Happiest Place on Earth." Bob and I took our boys for their first Disney trip when they were about six and eight—or maybe five and seven. The exact ages have faded with time, but the memories have not. We originally subscribed to the "once-in-a-childhood" philosophy. That lasted exactly one trip. We returned several times over the years. On that first visit, before we had even unpacked, I dropped off my rolls of 35mm film at the neighborhood Eckerd's. Photography was a beloved hobby, and I couldn't wait to see the pictures. Two days later, I picked them up only to discover they had been ruined. My camera had malfunctioned. There were images of my gleeful boys standing next to beheaded versions of Mickey Mouse and their parents. Every photograph was unusable. I was devastated. Those memories were lost forever. Or so I thought. Somewhere along the way, I remembered how Scripture tells us that Mary "treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." So I gave it a try. I became intentional about taking in life's moments with all my senses. Really seeing. Really hearing. Really smelling, tasting, and touching. Long before I knew the word mindfulness, I was practicing it. Thomas Merton described it beautifully: "Now. Here. This." It became part of my gratitude practice that has saved my life. I don't remember exactly what year that first Disney trip was. But I remember the delight in my boys' faces. I remember their excited voices. I remember the magic they experienced through the eyes of children. It was chaotic, but joyfully so. Exhausting, but fulfillingly so. Those memories remain treasured in my heart. Another trip was when the boys were ten and eight. It was Thanksgiving week, and I was still shell-shocked from the news of an unintended pregnancy. My mother and stepfather joined us. We enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner in Liberty Square with characters dressed as Pilgrims. We would return again during toddlerhood with our youngest and make several more family pilgrimages through the years. For a long time, that Thanksgiving trip was my favorite. Until now. Experiencing Disney as a grandparent is hands down my favorite role yet. My daughter-in-love Brittany is a true Disney enthusiast, and somehow my oldest son has become a Disney Dad—which still makes me smile. This trip celebrated Grayson's second birthday. And it wasn't even his first visit. One of the things I love most about Brittany is how she understands something many young parents don't realize until years later: while Grayson may not remember much of this trip, she will. She often says that his childhood is also her motherhood. I have thought about that phrase many times since I first read it on her magicwithmilam Instagram post. She has such wisdom I did not as a young mother . As parents, we spend so much energy creating memories for our children that we sometimes forget we are creating memories for ourselves, too. I sure did . We assume the investment is all for them—the birthday parties, the vacations, the bedtime stories, the traditions, the photographs, the ordinary Tuesdays that somehow become sacred in hindsight. But those moments are shaping us as much as they are shaping them. His second birthday at Disney may eventually fade from Grayson's memory, but Brittany will remember the way his eyes widened at the sight of the castle. She will remember the little hand reaching for hers. She will remember the exhaustion at the end of the day, the stroller naps, the sticky fingers, the laughter, and probably a few meltdowns too. She understands that she is not simply raising a child. She is also becoming a mother. And motherhood, like childhood, happens only once. There are no do-overs. No rewinds. No opportunities to return to a particular season and live it again. One day, she will not just remember Grayson's childhood. She will remember her own motherhood within it. As I watched her navigate schedules, meals, rides, naps, and logistics with a level of preparation that would impress a military commander, I realized she was doing something much deeper than planning a vacation. She was intentionally creating a life she wanted to remember. Not because every moment was magical. But because every moment mattered. As a grandmother now, I can see what younger me could not. The children are never the only ones growing. Parents are growing. Grandparents are growing. Families are growing. And if we are paying attention, God is growing something in all of us. Even you. Even me. This trip was also different for another reason. My role was simple: be an extra set of hands and eyes. Push the stroller. Help with some of the expenses. Slip back to the room with Grayson for bath, books, brushing teeth, bedtime, and all the rituals that follow. Nap when he napped. Stand watch when needed. It was refreshing. Liberating, even. Every second was a privilege I’m eternally grateful for. Of course, there was bittersweetness woven throughout. There always is. I know Bob would have treasured this trip in his heart, too. He would have delighted in Grayson's wonder. He would have watched our sons with pride as father and uncle. He would have marveled at Brittany's energy and competence. He would have shared a tube of Bengay with me, napped beside me, and I’m certain he would have even tried sushi with me. Every time a ride launched us skyward in simulated flight, I found myself whispering, "We sure miss you down here." Now we are approaching our fifth summer without him. The tears still come, though less often now. The ache remains tender. Grief has changed, but it has not disappeared. I suspect it never will. But alongside grief, there is so much to anticipate. So much to celebrate. So much life unfolding within our growing family. Over these years, I've learned that bitter and sweet are not opposites. They are companions. They travel hand in hand. And gratitude always tags along . Perhaps that is what Mary understood when Scripture tells us she "treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." She knew moments pass. Children grow. Roles change. Life unfolds in ways we never expect. The only way to truly keep it is not with photographs, calendars, or souvenirs, though those are lovely. The only way to preserve it is to receive it fully while it is here. To notice. To savor. To treasure. To store it away in the heart where neither time nor loss can completely erase it. Maybe that is what I've been learning all these years. Cameras fail. Bodies fail. People we love leave this earth. Children grow into parents, and parents become grandparents. We cannot hold onto any of it for long. But we can treasure it. We can receive it while it is here. We can store it away in our hearts and trust that God will tend those memories long after the moment itself has passed. Perhaps that, too, is part of making do while God makes the way? Comment on you favorite parenthood memories !