In Those Long Nights

 

Time has been carving its name into me,

slow strokes I didn’t notice

until the nights grew longer,

And my body began telling its truth.

When the house was full,

my aches never dared speak.

The kids’ laughter drowned everything out,

their teasing each other after dates,

their stories tumbling over each other

as they raided the kitchen at midnight.

The smell of whatever they were “cooking”

drifting down the hall,

and that soft, grateful relief

when we knew every one of them was home.

But children grow up,

as they should.

They stretch their wings,

and my heart stretches with them,

proud, worried, hopeful,

all at once.

And then one day,

the last door closed behind the last goodbye,

and the quiet settled in like dust.

Now, in the wee hours,

I lie awake thinking of days gone by,

the things I meant to do,

the versions of myself I never quite met.

The aches and creaks speak louder than they used to,

but so does something else.

In the stillness,

I feel God near;

a warmth wrapping around me,

a light soft enough to rest in.

No judgment, no hurry,

just presence.

And in that glow,

the empty spaces don’t feel so sharp.

I long to lean into His arms,

to rest where time can’t reach,

to know that deep in the place beyond fear

that everything will be alright.

wcd

Parenting Things I’d Do Differently

 

If I could walk those years again,

I’d loosen the grip I kept so tight,

Trying to shape perfection,

As if flawless children could shield our public life.

If I could rewrite anything, I’d slow the pace of our ambition, Let the world wait its turn. We tried very hard to live several lifetimes in one.

Careers, expectations, public eyes, 

Responsibilities stacked like stones. 

And in the rush, I sometimes forgot 

That childhood is not a performance, 

But a becoming.

Yet even with the missteps, The too‑hard tries, The too‑tired days, Look at them. Look at who they are. Not perfect by any means, but whole. Not molded, but grown. Not shaped by perfect parenting, But by love that showed up Even when clueless and exhausted.

If I’d do anything differently, It would be this: I’d give myself the grace I always needed to give them.

Because in the end, They became extraordinary Mostly despite me, Sometimes with me, Rarely through me, Many times without me.

And now, with grown children and grandchildren growing on, the challenge has changed. It’s no longer about shaping them, it’s about softening ourselves.

Letting go of the old parenting guilt, loving our children as the adults they became, not the versions we once tried to perfect. Offering wisdom only when asked, letting presence matter more than advice, and cheering for the next generation without trying to rewrite our past.

And maybe the bravest thing now is allowing ourselves to keep growing, too. Changing one small thing today that we couldn’t manage years ago.

Because the story doesn’t end when the children are grown. There is still time to love with more grace, to listen with more patience, to live with a softer heart.

And that is enough.

wcd

Don't Call Me Back!

 

When the road gets long and the body gives out,

and the doctor starts talkin’ in codes,

I'll just smile and nod like I understand

every word in those medical codes.

They'll ask for papers and signatures,

for choices shrinking with time,

And I’ve lived long enough to know

what waits on the other side.

So write it plain in capital letters,

no hemming, hawing, or slack:

If I get that close to heaven,

don’t you dare call me back.

I’ve had my share of aches and pains,

my midnight talks with the ceiling,

my bargain‑bin body with dents and dings

and parts that forgot all feeling.

I’ve danced with trouble, laughed with fools,

and loved more than I can say,

and when that final sunrise comes,

I won’t be lookin’ away.

So let the angels check their watches,

let the gates swing open wide,

I’ll stroll on in with a grateful grin,

no earthly strings to tie.

And if some nurse says, “We can save him,”

tell her kindly, “Cut him some slack.

He’s closer to heaven than he’s ever been,

and he ain’t comin’ back.”

wcd

The Pillbox Polka

 

The morning starts the way it always does, with my stiff‑kneed rise from bed,

the house still holding its breath

as if waiting to see

what shape I’ll take today.

I cross the kitchen like a man

walking through last winter’s snow,

slow, deliberate,

testing each step

before trusting it.

The pillbox waits beside the coffee-maker,

a small, plastic box and calendar

that knows more of my future

than I ever did of my past.

I open it, and the week unfolds:

Monday’s aches and pains,

Tuesday’s hypertension,

Wednesday’s midnight bathroom trips,

that never quite stop.

Medicare has left its messages again,

stacked like wood by the door,

reminders, warnings, offers,

all insisting I’m older

than I feel on my best days

and younger than I fear on my worst.

So I take my morning handful,

a quiet polka of necessity,

each pill a step in a dance

I never meant to learn

but somehow know by heart.

Outside, the world keeps its own rhythm:

a bird testing the air,

a truck banging down the road,

the sun climbing its familiar ladder.

And I stand there,

holding my coffee cup,

thinking how even this,

the creaks, the calls, the careful counting,

is a kind of living.

Not the dance I dreamed of,

but a dance all the same,

and mine to finish before the music stops,

as best I can.

That Annoying Calendar

 

Seventy‑five. Funny how the years seem to shrink now, softer around the edges, like pages thinned by too many readings. I miss the people who once moved through life beside me, the way we laughed our way through ordinary afternoons, the small secrets we treated like gold because only we understood their worth.

I miss the things we shared without effort, the trust, the borrowed hours, the feeling that the road ahead was wide enough to hold every dream we dared to dream.

Some nights I lie awake wishing I could twist the clock backward, fix a line here, soften a word there, smooth out the sharp places I didn’t realize would cut as deeply as they did.

I think about the chances I didn’t take, the doors I shut too fast, the ones I should’ve walked through with a braver heart. Regret sits with me now, quiet, not mean, just truthful.

If life handed me a reset button, I wouldn’t use it to start over. I’d use it to fix what I broke, to choose better where I stumbled, to stay a little longer with the people who shaped the best parts of who I became.

But here I am, still learning, still hoping, still carrying the stories of everyone I’ve loved. And maybe it's enough to remember, to feel, to wish, and to keep moving forward with the wisdom I didn’t have the first time around.

wcd

Maybe it IS about You

 

Everything I post isn't a cry for help, a clue, or a coded message.

Sometimes it’s something I saw, something I heard,

or something that made me stop and say, “Now that is worth thinking about.”

I try to write things that make folks look at their own life,

not trying to dissect mine like I’m a mystery to solve.

I’ve lived enough, watched enough, and learned enough

to know a good truth when it walks by,

And when it does, I share it.

So please don’t read my posts like they’re pages from my diary.

Don’t go diagnosing my mood or assuming I’m talking about you,

unless it hits a little too close.

Sometimes it is about somebody I knew,

something I witnessed,

or a thought that needed to land where it landed.

And if it stings?

If it feels familiar?

If it makes you pause for a second?

Maybe that’s the point.

Maybe it ain’t about me at all.

Maybe it’s about you.

Hugs! wcd