I was six years old and held my new metal lunch box tightly in my hand. It was so pretty with its blue trim and a little Holly Hobbie wearing a patchwork dress adorning the lid. I stood by the sewing machine, watching anxiously as my mother sewed a brand-new dress for me to wear on my first day of school ever. I could hardly wait.
It was going to be the best day of my life!
Ten years later, I stood on the sidewalk of the Pennsylvania Division of Motor Vehicles, the bright summer sunshine bouncing off of the object I held in my hand. I was staring proudly at my new driver’s license. It felt like freedom to me to hold that little plastic card with my picture on it. I was now allowed to drive anywhere I wanted, all by myself! I carefully tucked it into my wallet with a smile and sighed.
Life was good. It proved that the best days were only beginning.
Three summers later I stood at the front of the white country church, having just walked down the aisle to be married forever, for better or for worse. I saw my dad wipe away a few tears and I almost let a few of my own leak out but I captured them with a stern warning to myself that this was not a day for tears. I was marrying the man of my dreams and moving to the warm and sunny state of Florida where beaches abound. Eleven hundred miles away.
I was sure that being married was for the better. This promised to be the best future a girl could want.
I spent my twenty-fifth birthday laid out on the couch in our cozy little home in Georgia, blood pressure rising, waiting for my little son to be born so that I could resume my normal life. He took his time but when he decided to be born, he did so in a hurry! And the next few months I would rock him to sleep at night, my husband snoring in our bed at one end of the quiet mobile home and my two sweet toddlers tucked away in their bedroom at the other end.
These quiet, nighttime moments, rocking my baby, were the best times of my life.
One cold winter I sat in the living room with my five children gathered around me evening after evening, reading aloud to them the entire Laura Ingalls series. The littlest head snuggled up to me was distinctly darker than the rest. I reveled in these evenings spent together, knowing that there is no guarantee that we will all be here tomorrow. Time heals all wounds, they say, and I beg to disagree. God and time, working together, healed some wounds for our family and we were now in a good place. I wanted to freeze our family, keeping them just as we were, before my oldest child held his own driver’s license and decided he liked the sound of freedom.
These were the best days of my life, I was sure.
I survived turning the dreaded 4-0 and five years later, I found myself traveling down Interstate 16 to Savannah, every nerve stretched to the limit. I was on my way to see the brand-new gift that my oldest daughter was giving me. When I held my tiny granddaughter in my arms, I felt that surely life couldn’t be better. I could hold this baby as long as I wanted, spoil her as much as I desired, and when I was tired, I could give her back to her mother and go to bed and sleep the whole night through.
These were bound to be the best years of my life.
Yesterday was my birthday and we happen to be on a family vacation in Panama City Beach. My day started out with many hugs and birthday wishes. Then Carinda made breakfast for the guys and the kids while Crystal took me out to First Watch for a very tasty breakfast of our own, the first quiet one of the week! The restaurant had a certain writing vibe to it, and for a second I wanted to reach for my laptop and open it. Instead, I smiled at my daughter, and she smiled at me while we dug through the white ceramic dish of creamers that sat on the table, choosing flavors that would turn our delicious hot coffee into the perfect blend for our differing taste buds. We chatted as we tasted each other’s food and enjoyed the fresh morning air that blew through our hair. The outdoor table was a great choice. We were reluctant to leave even when we could eat no more.
We browsed through a nearby store and then hurried back home to join the rest of the girls and the grandkids who were wondering how long it takes two grown women to eat a simple breakfast.
The warm hours of sunshine were spent by the pool and at the beach, with lunch as the dividing factor between the two. I was banned from work of any sort, not even allowed to fold any of the ever-present laundry or wash a few simple dishes. They did permit me to haul a beach bag and chair across the warm soft sand simply because they couldn’t quite carry all of it themselves. No one kept me from encouraging kids to carry their sand buckets full of toys and flip-flops faithfully like their strong daddy would. The air was warm, and the sun was out. The beach was sparsely populated, just like I prefer. It was a good afternoon once we were settled in our chairs.
Then the daylight fades into twilight and it is our last evening together. I have enjoyed the time with my family. I devoured the tasty food the girls brought back for my evening meal and the birthday cake that was meant to celebrate both Lowell and I. Crystal and Carla will start the long trek back to San Antonio tomorrow afternoon and instead of the normal evening game of cards around the table, we are scattered throughout the house. While Andrew and Lowell relax on the couches, Crystal and Carinda are in the bathroom plastering their faces with green goop that is supposed to make them more beautiful than they already are. I entertain the three littlest people of the party, letting them listen to Frog and Toad stories on my phone, and Carla works to unclog Lyndon’s wax-filled ears. She vows this is one of her favorite parts of her job and she keeps complaining about not having the right size syringe. But finally, long after Frog and Toad stories have ended and I am enjoying a slice of birthday cake, she lets out a shriek of triumph. I wander over to view the prize, and there, bobbing in the bowl of water is the biggest, most disgusting clump of earwax I have ever seen. My stomach flops and I am losing the appetite for the cake in my hand.
But it was the best of “birthday days”! I soaked up the love and the joy along with the sun. I “ate” sand bucket birthday cakes embellished with seahorses and a feather, and a stray dirty straw made by the kids. I helped them gather sea shells brought in by the surf and admired the tiny fish that swam in the clear water. I took my turn chasing Marcus as he chased seagulls and listened to a one-sided conversation between my daughter and my dejected son-in-law as he once again missed out on a family vacation because of a class he could not escape. But he wished me a happy birthday anyway, and it made my day a perfect one.
And while stretched out on the white beach with sand stuck to my legs and watching the waves roll in, listening to the happy voices calling to each other in the wind, it came to me again, without a shadow of a doubt.
These are truly, once again, the best years of my life!