She turned seven last month, and it threw me.  It wasn’t as if someone tossed me over the fence and I floated down onto a patch of soft grass.  This felt more like someone hurled me against a brick wall and then I ricocheted off the concrete driveway into a tree. 

Seven.  It just sounds so . . . not little.

I think if she were my only, seven would simply be another single-digit number.  I think if she were my oldest, seven would just be one more than six.  But Libby is my youngest child.  She is my baby, and yet, clearly, she’s not.  She’s seven. 

Of course, I realize the baby stage of my life is long past.  I haven’t changed a diaper in ages and I can’t remember the last time I found myself dozing in a rocking chair at two o’clock in the morning.  The toddler days are gone too.  I donated the high chair, strollers, and sippy cups to Goodwill years ago.  I no longer measure time in weeks or months.  I’m not sleep deprived.  There are no outlet covers in my house. 

I mourned the passing of the baby and toddler stages as they ended, and I continue to do so every time I look at old photographs.  Still, until last month, I thought of myself as the mother of young children.  I liked that role.  It fit.  Now, my youngest is seven, and I’m just a mother.  I don’t have young children.  I have two kids.  They go to school from eight to three, five days a week.  They have homework and their feet stink and they can’t make it down even one aisle in the grocery store without asking for something I’ve told them a thousand times I’m never going to buy.  And I’m slumped under a tree, dazed and confused with a huge bump on my head, trying to figure out exactly how I got here.

The strange thing is, she doesn’t seem all that grown up.  She still has skin like silk and loves to snuggle, and occasionally, we find her thumb in her mouth in the middle of the night.  Seven isn’t really such a significant jump from five and six.  Yet, it was quite emotional to celebrate Libby’s seventh birthday, and as the days since then have passed, I’ve realized my despair doesn’t have all that much to do with my daughter becoming a seven year old.  It has to do with what it signifies to have children who are no longer in the young category.  It has to do with the fact that as Charlie and Libby enter a new stage in their lives, so do I. 

Since the moment God gifted me with our first child, my life has revolved almost completely around the act of mothering.  When you have young children, there is rarely time (or energy) for anything else.  My days and weeks and years have centered on Charlie and Libby’s needs and desires, and there were many.  When I woke up each morning, I was prepared to do one thing – be their mama – and I knew what to expect.  There would be cuddling and singing and answering questions and dressing and preparing meals and feeding and cleaning up and reading and playing and talking and disciplining and helping and teaching and more cleaning up and protecting and laughing and soothing and calming and appeasing and bathing and tickling and giggling and praying and even more cleaning up.  I filled every day to the brim with the physical and emotional duties of motherhood, and on most nights, I went to bed believing I had accomplished something of great importance.

For almost ten years now, my primary focus has been on my children, and I know they will continue to be my top priority for another decade.  Yet, now that my kids are growing up, my role in their lives is changing.  My days are no longer packed from dawn to dusk with the many responsibilities of parenting.  Now, my days are filled with time.

I’m almost ashamed to admit it, but not so long ago, I looked forward to this time.  I cried last fall, on that first day both of my children would be at school from eight to three, heavy tears fraught with the loss of having them close more often than not.  But deep down, in a place no good mother wants to admit exists, I felt a small sense of joy at the idea of all that time.  Time for myself.  Time to do the things I’d put off.  Time to do the things I wanted to do.  Time to breathe.  

The first days were exhilarating.  That allusive time I’d been craving, while foreign, seemed so full of promise. But the days came one after the next, over and over until there seemed to be too many.  Sometimes, I’d find myself wandering around the house, walking in and out of each room as I tried to decide what to do. 

Summer brought relief.  They were close once more.  While no longer a constant caregiver, I transformed into the role of chaperone, and found contentment there.  The house was noisy and the days were busy and my mind was happily cluttered with the tasks of parenting two children all day long.  Then, in the blink of an eye, August arrived.  School started and she turned seven and here I am, surrounded again by all this time.

I considered last year one of adjustment.  I expected to struggle a bit with my new role as a stay-at-home mom whose kids aren’t at home, and I did.  Now, the novelty has worn off and reality has set in – this is permanent – and I feel as though I must make some decisions about what this stage of life means for me.  I can easily fill up my day. I can spend the hours from eight to three doing responsible, positive things.  I can go to Bible study and exercise and volunteer at the kids’ school and clean my house and walk the dog and do the grocery shopping and prepare meals for others and work in the yard and play tennis and read and write and have lunch with friends.  Yet, for some reason, all of these things just don’t feel like enough.  And I keep coming back to the same thought . . . what’s next?

I have all this time.  Time to do something important.  Time to do something truly meaningful . . . dare I say . . . time to do something . . . eternal?  I want my life to have value.  I want to make a real, lasting impact on someone or something.  The question is . . . how?  Who?  Where?  Most importantly, why? 

Why do I feel the need to do something other than what I’m doing?  Why can’t I find satisfaction in the everyday tasks of my life?  Why do I have this gnawing feeling there is something more for me to accomplish? And if God intends me to explore another purpose, one that won’t diminish my ability to put my own family first, yet will bring pleasure while being full of worth, why, oh why isn’t He showing me the way?

Yea, yea.  I know.  Patience has never been my strong suit.  I guess all I can do is keep praying. 

Dear Lord,

     Thank you for seeing me through all the seasons of my life.  I know you have a plan for me.  I want to do your will.  Please God, please show me what’s next.

I sure do hope He provides an answer for me soon.  I’m ready to listen, willing to try, and hey . . . I’ve got nothin’ but time.


Ecclesiastes 3:2    There’s an opportune time to do things, a right time for everything on earth. 

Isaiah 43:18-19     Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past.  See I am doing a new thing!