We have enjoyed a stellar Alaska summer, the kind we relish during the depths of a dark winter.
The whisper of fall is beginning to roll through the trees. Leaves begin transforming from their soft rustle to a dry crackling before separating from the branch altogether. Winter will arrive soon, like it or not.
In our lives, we’ve reached a seasonal change, one that some envy and others grieve, the season of an “empty nest.”
I came into motherhood during a season of life many others enter the grandmother phase. The medical establishment gives this an endearing title: geriatric pregnancy.
We had celebrated 17 anniversaries before the first child arrived. In the span of four years, our nest welcomed three healthy babies. Our nest-full kept me busy caring, teaching, and protecting to the best of my ability, as a “geriatric” mom.
When we learned our third child was a girl, I cried anxious, fearful tears. Not having sisters and few female influences, I felt inadequate and ill equipped to be a girl-mom. My husband teased not to worry since our only daughter was destined to be “daddy’s girl.”
Destiny and our daughter had other plans. I became her constant safe haven until around the age of 4. From the first day she would not let me out of her sight or reach. I never abandoned her as I was advised by the older generation. I thought it was cruel to leave someone so young that needed and trusted me. I would die rather than break that trust.
Over the next 17 years, her maturity developed, her confidence grew, and her sense of purpose formed. I was no longer needed as a safe space for this itty-bitty blended version of my husband and myself. I was in awe that this smart, talented, and kind young woman was ours. She carried herself with grace beyond anything I could muster.
These last few years, she’s been the only child at home as one brother after the other left us, striking out on their own. Through the changes, she adapted, through the struggles, she persevered and even faced with serious threats, she centered herself in Faith. Our last child has proven ready to make her own mark on the world.
Our nest is on the verge of total vacancy from our three additions. I knew this reality would arrive as quickly as their pitter patter little feet entered and engulfed my world. I knew that one day, they would march out the door into their own worlds, leaving behind a void and maybe a dirty dish or two.
The season of letting go is a hard one on mothers. We are the first to feel movements of their life in our womb, we nurture them with our bodies, we are their place of rest, we help them toughen their resolve, and soothe their heartbreaks. In return, they give us peaceful contentment and purpose, they center us and honor us with the title of mother.
Some say that sending them out into the world to make their own way is considered successful parenting, nonetheless it’s hard to face. It takes courage and faith beyond any needed in any season before. The transformation from active parent to spectator is difficult.
After 18 years of being a human search engine and domestic facilitator of everyone’s needs, it’s a blow to be sidelined by those that gave your life a purpose. Their existence set the schedule of my day from sunup to sundown, season after season, for years. The atmosphere surrounding me is shifting, this season feels heavy.
Although my mom duties are no longer keeping me as busy as before, my mind is wonders back to that full-nest mode. I’m now forced to make room for an empty unknown where I’m no longer needed. This doesn’t feel like success to my bruised spirit. Like it or not, being the tenant of an empty nest is hard on a mom’s heart.
Watching the growth, development and separation of each child is like the sprouting and shedding of leaves and seedlings from a tree, transforming through the years. We are entering a season where we are anchored in place at home as our sprouts blow away, taking our heartstrings in tow as they put down roots of their own elsewhere, without us.
If we can endure the harsh realities of letting go, and if we’re fortunate, one day we may find ourselves in a season surrounded by a forest of new growth, full of blessings that we helped sow and nurture.
I look forward to that season. It will surely be a beautiful sight to experience all the emptiness of our nest move through the season of being full once again.
Rhonda Baisden lives in Kenai and is blessed with three incredible children and a remarkable husband.
