A Sunday reflection
I commented the other day that we’re in the middle years; though we’re nearing the end of our thirties, and by all standards still fit into the “young” category, it feels like we’re right in the middle. And though “middle aged” has a bunch of connotations about grey hair and going all in for a red sports car, there is something both mundane and beautiful about being in the middle.
We’re past the baby-rearing stage, and we glimpse the teenage years barreling towards us. Our parents will have health flare-ups but we’re not yet sandwiched between launching children and caring for parents. But the years of going to weddings and baby showers have slowed. We don’t spend our weekends traveling for parties or attending themed galas.
We’ve been married long enough to know that there will be cycles of intimacy, distance, and clinging to one another for grace. That, as our marriage grows and deepens it does so in the normal day-to-day activities of making each other coffee, sacrificing our whims for the good of the other, for planning date nights and sex and learning to be silly when the weight of the world feels like it’s on your shoulders. These are the small ways love looks in the middle.
I’ve fought the middle for a long time. The way it feels so predictable and boring. Raised on Disney stories and my own idealistic and unrealistic expectations about love, marriage, parenting, and friendship, I thought the thrill would never leave. What I’m finding is we have a choice in the middle years: will I yearn for the early years when everything was fresh and full of promise, or will I patiently practice love in all the intervening small spaces of self-sacrifice? Will I try to make someone (a friend, a child, a mate) into someone they’re not or will I love them as they are?
The middle can be boring. It’s often unsexy. It lacks the thrill of the beginning when all was new. But it hasn’t yet arrived at the warm full-bodied sense of glory that’s waiting at the end.
I want other people’s stories of life in the middle. I want stories that will seep into my bones about the goodness of the gospel in the ordinary, daily moments. I want stories about people, places, and things — nouns that show us that living a life of faith is possible right in the ordinary.
Today, I’m living in the middle. Of course it’s lost its sheen, but that is not the point. We are headed somewhere together and all good journeys take a deep breath and dig in for the middle. It’s in the middle where you really catch your stride. It’s in the middle where a stalwart confidence and deeply grounded sense of self grow.
So I make coffee for my husband as he leaves early to set up for church. I’ll pour cereal for my children and teach Sunday School. I’ll reach out to new faces at church and stay to welcome them, and I’ll know my children can play unattended for a bit in these middle years. We’ll come home and rest our bodies and I’ll cuddle up with my big boys for movies. This is the bodily language of the middle and it, too, is a gift.