Kate and I took an early October trip to the Greensboro area, staying at Hagan-Stone, a little gem of a park and campground near Pleasant Garden. The leaves had the lightest dusting of Autumn. Fleece jackets and fuzzy sweaters added to a feeling of pleasant melancholy.
We had come mostly to visit my Mom, Dad and sister and her family, but also for a short get-a-away and some hiking through the park.
Mom and Dad are well into their elder years, but the kind of elder years we'd all be so lucky to have, with a nice home, places to go and good friends to see. Yet there is the tension between gratefulness for what you have and grief over what's been lost.
We treasure our time together, as well as our weekly phone conversations, realizing that our allotment of minutes for chatting and visiting is not as inifinite as it once seemed. We are all aware of that, and are wise enough to relish and savor them.
Sister married a sweet man, who also became a loving and involved father. Two of their brood have fledged, and we heard news of their adventures. We let all the "dog cousins" loose in the backyard, and they romped around joyously, then we sat down to break bread and reminisce. We see them far too infrequently, Kate and I caught up in our daily "priorities" which we so often get completely wrong.
Kate and I enjoyed our strolls through Hagan-Stone Park, the old farm ponds glassy in the morning, reflecting the traces of fall. There were brief moments of magic when all felt right and time seemed to stop. We posted pictures on Facebook showing the grand time we had.
But the Facebook posts did not include details of how our hiking stride has slowed, miles covered are fewer, and sore joints more common. We left out anxiety about the fragility of aging parents. We failed to report about the stresses of our jobs, that we were so happy to escape for a brief time.
We each have our share of daily struggles. Some share those freely with friends and Facebook, others hold theirs close. Mine include frequent spells of back soreness and tightness, plus a general sense that my life somehow doesn't measure up, combined with the expectation that lightening will strike at any moment. I am probably a classic candidate for at least a glass of wine each evening, if not something a bit stronger.
We also each meet with tragedy sooner or later. Some of us bear more than others. Likely most of you have borne more than me, and I'm not sure what grace or good fortune accounts for that. It's oft been said that God won't give us more than we can bear, but I wonder if those who experience violence, starvation and torture would agree.
There's a balance, isn't there, between soaking up the pleasures of the moment and acknowledging the grief we feel over opportunity lost, injuries and injustices, both received and given.
But instead of wine, I drink up forest strolls with Kate, conversations with Mom and Dad, visits with my dear sister and her sweet family, and relaxing in the camper on a sunny fall afternoon, the stresses of the world forgotten if only for a moment.
