A time to plant and a time to uproot what is planted.
A number of years ago, while our house was still bursting with teenagers, I mused on what life would be like when they were gone. Here is part of what I wrote:
Someday when the teens are gone, our car insurance payments will once again be smaller than our house payments. There won’t be any more white-knuckled rides, arguing about how fast is too fast or how close is too close.
Certain sounds won’t echo in our home–sounds of hair spray, squeals of delight over a new boyfriend, the sound of doors being slammed in a fit of anger or our teen boys wrestling upstairs. Windows won’t reverberate and bulge with bass notes coming from CD songs that no one understands the words to.
Gone will be the dishes in the sink, the help for Saturday chores, discussions about whether a movie is acceptable or not, Bible studies on the book of Proverbs before school, late night knocks on our bedroom door letting us know that someone is home from a ball game. The telephone will occasionally ring for us for a change.
But there will be memories … memories of fireside chats, grilled burgers, Dad’s French toast, Mom’s eggs on toast, fishing and hunting trips, vacations, cats, dates with Mom, dates with Dad, more cats, breakfast in bed on birthdays, and prayers–yes, prayers by the thousands that have been offered up on their behalf.
So in the end, our home won’t be empty. Instead, in the words of Bob Benson, “Every room, every corner of the house, every nick in the coffee table will be crowded with memories.”
And Barbara and I will “sit quietly by the fire and listen to the laughter in the walls.”