On Fresh Starts

And finding our way

I.

At the end of May, my son married his high school sweetheart. It was a destination wedding of sorts, an all-in-one venue outside of Fort Collins, Colorado where the bride and groom were able to gather a smallish group of family and friends to celebrate the start of their new life together.

It was magical.

Our family trickled into the state from all over the continent, filling up guest houses and hotel rooms, restaurants and hiking trails. We ate and drank and celebrated—not just the wedding, but all the things: birthdays and graduations and milestones that somehow seemed to converge in this one, riotous and joy-filled month.

On the way back to our rental house one night, as my mom and I walked the path beside the river and over a scenic, pedestrian bridge, she asked me: “Do you have any idea what’s going on in the world?”

“None whatsoever,” I responded with a rush of gratitude. But beneath that, I felt a sudden pinch of unease. I had absolutely no idea what was happening outside of our happy bubble. My biggest problems for weeks had been making sure there was enough lemonade for my daughter’s graduation party, and securing reservations on trendy patios for large groups during the celebratory wedding week. Heavy stuff indeed.

I pushed thoughts of civic duty and cultural awareness aside. “I can’t think about anything right now except for what’s right in front of me,” I told my mom, and she agreed.

The next day, I grinned when the doors to the Victorian mansion flung open and my new daughter walked down the wide steps toward my son. He cried.

The happy couple (as photographed by Georgia Abigail Photography)

II.

Homecoming week was filled with a dozen firsts. My youngest child’s first full-time job. The start of summer vacation without my oldest under our roof. There were lunches to be made, schedules to coordinate, and new routines to settle into. It was also Summer Celebration, our small town’s yearly festival to ring in the season. There were food trucks, a street dance, a town musical, and a parade that we dubbed the “Candy Parade” for the abundance of treats tossed to onlookers.

At one of the events that I attended with my family, I was rushing to the restroom when I stumbled across an emergency of sorts. No one was hurt, but it was a personal catastrophe, and one that I’m sure created a significant amount of worry and embarrassment. A stranger had triaged the situation, and pulled me aside to point me in a different direction. Because I was startled and in a hurry, I complied without a backward glance.

It wasn’t until later—when it was too late for me to help in any way—that I felt the first blush of regret. Why didn’t I do something? There had been a very real need right in front of me, and instead of stepping in, I walked away. Whether they wanted or needed my assistance was debatable, but I could have offered at the very least. Maybe I could’ve helped to make a bad situation the tiniest bit better.

I couldn’t let it go. For the next few days I prodded the thought like a sore tooth, pushing until it hurt and then backing off, assuring myself that there really was nothing that I could have done anyway. I didn’t buy it.

Sometimes we have to answer for the things we’ve done. And sometimes we are held accountable for what we have left undone.

III.

I’ve been hanging out on our front porch most nights, sometimes reading, and sometimes just sitting. This place and this time of year just might be my favorite. But I say that about a lot of seasons and a lot of places. Still. There has been something almost otherworldly about our porch this summer.

A few nights ago, I sat in the swing and the light spilled just so, the world dripping words like a poem I could taste and see. The scent of the linden trees, a sunset like saltwater taffy, a cardinal’s song. I ducked inside to grab a notebook and pen, and tried to pin down some of the beauty around me.

It faded too fast.

Through the trees, the patchwork of pink light dimmed until everything was feather-gray and dusted with twilight, and I was left with a half-blank page.

I missed it. A thought so disappointing, I knew it had nothing to do with another day ending. It was a bereft feeling, a hollow, what-might-have-been, bone-deep longing. It was about hitting pause on my life to focus on banner moments that slipped by so quickly I still can’t believe they’re now relegated to memory. And missing so much in the interim. About wishing I could live in that liminal space where everything is briefly, devastatingly beautiful instead of dark-cornered and gritty and broken. It’s coming back to earth and realizing that everything has changed and nothing has changed, and my open heart and hands are needed in ways that I don’t always want to accept. If only we could toast and cheer and smile knowingly at each other when days are warm and bright, gorgeous in their simplicity.

But as I closed my notebook and capped my pen, readying myself to escape inside before the mosquitos decided to come play, a final beam of sunlight hit the leaded glass windows behind me. I knew without looking that it would shine right through our entryway and living room, straight out the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows that frame our backyard. The place where the sun would rise again in less than nine hours. Another dew-clean, summer-bright day.

The promise of a fresh start.

IV.

I grew up in the church, and one of my favorite things was when we would sing in a round. The pastor or worship leader would section off the congregation: “You sing this part, and you sing this, and the rest of you, this.” And the music would play and some would join in, and then others and the rest until our voices were overlapping. No second without a note in it. Sometimes, I would stop singing altogether, but around me the song would go on and on and on…

Maybe life is a little like that, too. We cover for each other. We offer grace. We fail and flourish and find our way.

I begin where you end,
and circle back and sing again--
an echo
a chorus
a never-ending round
of sunset and rise,
dark slant of light
where winged things
wish and wonder--
and you and I are
one

Eyes open. Hearts steady. Hands ready.

Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole

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