I suppose you could say Mama Jan and I are empty nesters.

But not officially.

For the first time in a long while, I hear sounds that life had me forget somehow.

I hear the clock ticking. 

I hear the refrigerator’s gentle hum.

I hear the sound of the house cooling down after a warm summer day.

Sounds that have been there all along but were crowded out with the joyful sounds of living and doing. 

First it was the sound of a newly minted Dad trying to get the onesie on and all the snaps snapped in the proper sequence.  You don’t hear much when you are focused in like that and the little one before you has every intent of escape and mutiny in mind.

Soon it was the sound of drinking glasses tipping over and the cascade of tea to the carpet below.  (Hint, always laugh at it.)

Then came the scraping sound of pencil and paper as homework was finished up, or a newly colored picture by the sweet daughter.

It wasn’t long, and skates, basketballs, and even a baseball got used within the confine of these four walls. 

Sobering visits filled in the space; good visits, though sometimes with a few tears.

The hilarious shouts of young people filled the room.  Charades were acted out at random times and this old man nearly passed out with laughter.

Songs and more songs, singing until one in the morning sometimes.

But, for now, all those sounds are gone, and it’s quiet in the house.

One could say that the good years have been lived.

Not so.

Because the good years, and what makes them, are, I think, woven together with a certain simple detail that doesn’t concern itself with time, place, or number of folks present. 

*****

“We need to do better at passing the food at the table,” said my good wife one day when all the children were still at home.  “Lately, all we have been doing is sliding it to each other.”

I sat back in amazement.

This soft-spoken gentlewoman speaking in such tones left me speechless.

“Well for one thing,” I thought to myself, “what difference does it make?” 

“And for that matter,” I told myself, “I know I always pass it.”

But it wasn’t long before I seemed to notice that it was quite often that I got food shoved at me, and I in turn shoved it on its way to the sweet one who always sits at my left.

“Really, we’re all busy, and at least the food is getting passed,” I continued in my muttered defense, “I mean, some families don’t do this well as us in this area.  I’ve seen big hairy arms reaching clear across the table or directly across the plate of the one they are sitting by to fetch what their rumination tells them too.  At least that isn’t happening here.  We aren’t barbarians, for goodness’ sake!”

Like it is with so many of the things that sweet lady I live with says, this one proved to be worth listening to. 

More than ever now that it’s just the two of us.

Because it’s when I lift the food, and hand it to the one I love, that life really happens.

We have every chance to arrange the food in such a way that we don’t need to pass it to each other. 

Slide it if you will.

But I’m really glad we don’t. 

Life, during the years when all the children were home, was extremely good.  It was so busy though, with the onesies and all, that reaching out purposefully to each other got lost in the blur of everything.  I know it happened.  I remember times when it did.  But it couldn’t be savored. 

And for those who find themselves in similar circumstances with little ones by your side, you needn’t worry.

Love gets through even when it can’t be purposely thought out.

I’m liking this empty nester thing. 

It gives me time to think, and the chance to lift the food and pass it, even though we could just as easily slide it.



Service rendered in love, whatever it may be, elevates a regular minute from mundane to divine.