For more than a decade, I have believed myself to be in a life cycle that began with much optimistic feathering, only to end very, very emptily: Youth is fabulous, old age is an affliction. Like many parents of my culture, the potential of my own children is thrilling, and its underlying love hypnotic. And, even though my kids moved into adulthood long ago, I still lean toward open doorways remembering their footsteps and I still plan favorite meals only to reluctantly reduce them by two. Sometimes, I must shake off (and hope no one notices) the desire to reach out and hug or tousle or cheer or clean up after what (or who!) just isn’t there.
Yes, I’ve spent eleven years trying to fill an empty nest with projects and jobs and hobbies and travel, but underlying every wonderful diversion has been the shadow life of loving and living with my babies that I miss.
Until, that is, the other evening, an evening that followed a normal busy day in my parents’ home: I had made beds, processed laundry, prepared meals, withstood outbursts, helped with paperwork, distributed medicine, and cautiously advised (which is always the hardest for me to do!). So, by the time I returned to my home, I fully expected to be tired, cranky, and, quite possibly, self-pitying. However, on this particular evening, I felt satisfied. Completely satisfied. Surprisingly satisfied. Could it be that God is using the tasks I’d always loved to do on behalf of my children (and now must do for my parents) to fill, fully fill, my innate need to nurture? In utmost joy, I praised the Lord for my delight.
Now, after the joy has receded a bit and blessed contentment has taken its place, I find myself wondering if my generation is missing a chunk of life intended for our good when we resist, avoid, constrict, distantly manage, and dread providing care to our aging parents and their equally elderly peers. I wonder if God, in His mercy, is showing me that our life cycle is actually a cycle of care – a cycle meant to be very real, very intentional, very beautiful, and very redemptive. Perhaps we are not supposed to stop nurturing when our babies fly away, turning all our newly available time to our own indulgences. Maybe, instead, we are free because it is at that point in the life cycle when the generation before us needs respectful care born from a tenderness that can only develop through time – our unselfish, unstinting time.
Yesterday I was rocked as a baby and then I rocked my own babies. Today I sit by my parents as they rest and rock. And, perhaps, in some not-too-distant tomorrow (Lord willing!) I will sit and rock my own aching bones as a younger person keeps me company. For, in the truth of Psalm 145,
The Lord is good to all;
He has compassion on all He has made …
and [His] dominion endures through all generations …
