One year ago today, Tim and I were vacationing at Horseshoe Bay Resort, just outside of Austin. Some good friends of ours had planned to go down for a few days and invited us to join them on very little notice. We put in for a few days off work, made reservations at the resort, packed our beach bags, and hit the road. Ah, to be young, free… and have some disposable income.
On our last morning at Horseshoe Bay, we woke early and enjoyed breakfast, played a round of mini-golf (on a REALLY nice mini-golf course) and took a dip in the pool before heading back up to our rooms to shower, pack, and return home.
I had just gotten out of the shower when I saw that I’d missed a call from both my mom and dad. I returned mom’s call, and her shaky voice told me that my grandfather had passed away a few hours earlier.
Two days later, I was on a plane to Montana for Grandpa’s funeral. Our large family converged on the small town and begun gathering photos and memories, and despite all the activity, I did a lot of thinking. Experiencing any kind of loss makes one stop and take stock of things. The night before the funeral, I lay alone in the dark in the big bed at my grandparents’ house. I was sad, but only a little. More than anything, I felt really, really thankful.
I lived twenty five years of my life with all four of my grandparents. I don’t know if I know anyone else who can say that. My grandpa lived to be ninety three years old, and he was healthy both physically and mentally. And funny. He had a loving wife, seven children, nineteen grandchildren, and six great grandchildren (if I’m counting correctly). He died eating lunch. He said he felt tired, put his head down, and that was it. What more could a person ask for? And what more could we, his family, ask for? God had blessed us. My only wish was that Grandpa had lived long enough for my children to meet him.
I lay in bed, counting my blessings, but was also struck by the changing of seasons. Up until that point, every time I’d traveled home to Montana had been for vacation. Each July marked a fun trip to visit family, play in the mountain creeks, and soak in the fresh air and cool summer evenings. My soul is always buoyant as I board that plane home. This time, I packed my black dress and heels and had to face the fact that these summers in Montana will not last forever. My grandparents are getting older, and so am I.
Tim and I had enjoyed six years of marriage. We’d grown up a lot, done most of the things adults do, and mostly in the order you’re “supposed to” do them. Children were looming on our horizon, but we were enjoying our freedom. I should clarify,
I was enjoying our freedom. Tim was ready for kids. I was holding out. Still, I had dreamed of my children meeting their great-grandparents some day. I lay in that bed and weighed things out. What mattered, what I wanted out of life, and what was at risk if I kept waiting and waiting, gambling on the idea that everything else in my life would be just where I wanted it when I decided I was “ready.” It was unavoidable: time wouldn’t stand still while I kept dipping my toes in that pool, flirting with the idea of taking the plunge. That night, I knew what God was calling me to do, and when I called Tim the next morning, I let him know.
Less than two months later, I took a positive pregnancy test. Today, on the first anniversary of my grandpa’s death, I look into the eyes of my sweet baby boy, who is seven weeks old and just starting to really smile at us. Again, I am struck by the truth in Romans 8:28, that God works all things together for the good of those who love Him. That God uses death to coax us to let go of trivial things and embrace life and the blessings He has waiting for us if we’ll just open our hands.
Well, it's not like he was going to attempt the backstroke. So what if it was a little big? 
