There is a Season for Everything

The writer of Ecclesiastes has written a brilliant statement that deserves our careful consideration of its meaning: "There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under the heavens … a time to be born and a time to die ..." (Ecclesiastes 3:1-2).

Six weeks ago, our world was turned upside down. I got a call late one evening that mom had called 911 because my stepdad was having some type of seizure. It turned out to be a stroke that would radically alter the course of his life.

He will never again return home. Within days, it became clear to us that our mom, now living alone in the house, was not able to take care of herself. She is now in an assisted living community. My stepdad will never leave the nursing home, and mom will never again live at home. We've been boxing up a lifetime of possessions as we prepare to sell the house.

Kim and I have experienced the loss of both of our fathers. Kim's father and my father-in-law, Roy, died of pancreatic cancer seventeen months after being diagnosed. We were shocked to hear those words—pancreatic cancer—from the doctor.

Roy was, by medical standards, extremely healthy. He had never ventured into habits that are known contributors to the disease called cancer. He died in December of 2010 at the age of 74. While we did not "grieve as those who have no hope" (1 Thessalonians 4:13), it was a tremendous loss to our family and our church. 

My dad was diagnosed with kidney cancer at the age of 70. The first seven or eight years were mostly uneventful in dealing with the disease, but the last two years made us very aware that his journey was nearing its end. Dad died a month after his 80th birthday.

Neither Roy nor dad required some of the usual processes related to growing older or dealing with declining health. They were both fairly active until the last few weeks of their lives. Kim's mom, Norma, is a remarkable lady in her eighties who serves as an elder in our church, teaches a Sunday School class, and rarely sits still. She is a vibrant and special lady who inspires not only our family, but many in our church and community. 

The situation with my mom has been difficult. Within 24 hours of her 911 call for my stepdad, we were suddenly scrambling to get things in order so we could provide adequate care for both of them. They wisely chose many years ago to keep their financial and legal affairs separate. But we had not taken care of a few details in advance.

That meant a trip to the bank to get authorization on mom's accounts so we could pay her bills. It meant finding a place for mom to live. Thanks to some wonderful people in the Crossings family, we were led to a wonderful place that would feel most like home for her.

Mom is 88 years old. She has saved hundreds of photos, slides, framed pictures, notes, letters, and cards. She has dozens of very expensive Christmas Carolers that have sat on her grand piano every Christmas for decades. We are now figuring out what to do with them. And selling a beautiful piano is not a fun task, but our family has enough pianos in our homes as it is. 

Walking in and out of the nursing home where my stepdad now resides is always a sad experience. In some ways, it feels like the "end of the road called hope." And while mom is in a nice apartment, walking into her complex is a reminder that she is now at her final stop in her journey of life. There is no way to describe how this has impacted me, or maybe a better word is "affected” me. 

I have been painfully yet joyfully reminded of the text that says, "Teach us to number our days, that we may gain a heart of wisdom" (Psalm 90:12).

Mom with Cole meeting her fourth great grandchild, Remi Kate!

Life is short. It is a precious gift. I don't suggest we dwell on the final season of our lives, but I do suggest we realize how precious, fragile, and temporary this life on earth really is.

The older I get, the more I wish I had not wasted those days feeling insecure. I wish I had not wasted those moments of worry and stress about things I could not change. I wish I had realized this life is a marathon and not a sprint.

I wish I had been more patient with the kids, had more date nights with Kim, spent less money on things I didn't need, taken more trips to the park, the beach, the mountains … written more notes to friends and heroes who have loved and impacted me in significant ways.

I am telling Kim and the kids more frequently how much I love them. Thankfully, the more I came to realize the beauty and brevity of life, I started doing more of the things that matter. 

I am convinced the legacy we leave will be crafted and defined while we are alive. Kim and I are doing our best to focus on what really matters. I write this sitting at the dining room table in Colorado, trying to comprehend the beauty of the lake and mountains, enjoying a drenching rainstorm, and cherishing the blessing of a loving wife, kids who love Jesus, grandkids who bring unexplainable joy, a church that keeps the focus on Jesus, friends we don't deserve, and a reminder of the simplicity of things that really matter.

On a more humorous note, I have gone so far as to tell the kids that if they are nice to me, I will not leave them a house with attics and closets full of stuff they will have to deal with. If they aren't nice to me, I will cram the attics and closets full of junk that will make them aggravated, as well as amused that I got the last laugh.

There is a season for everything …