You know that feeling when you get to the final chapter of one of the best books you’ve ever read, and you’re dreading the finish? You know it’s going to be great. You can’t wait to see how everything ends. But there’s also a part of you that’s already sad because the book is almost over.
It’s the same feeling you get after investing dozens–sometimes hundreds–of hours into a TV series, only to find yourself staring at the finale.
For the past 10 years, our family has invested heavily in my son’s baseball. We’ve given financially and spent countless hours traveling to tournaments, driving to and from practices, and attending games. And honestly, it’s been a blast (other than that one time I got ejected).
Last weekend, his junior year came to an end after a heartbreaking defeat right before State. There were tears as the team said goodbye to the seniors and to an influential coach, and my heart hurt for what it all represented.
This was the beginning of the end.
We’re entering our last summer season. Fall ball, if it happens, will be his last. And next spring will be his senior year–his final season of high school baseball.
This book is going to be heartbreaking to put down. Based on the emotional wreck I was this past weekend, I’m honestly not sure how I’m going to handle it.
Every parent eventually stares down the barrel of empty nesting. Saying goodbye to raising your kids is a tough chapter to close. And I understand there are more books coming in the series. I know this adventure still has many chapters left to explore. But it’s still sad knowing we’re almost done with this one.
I asked a close group for prayer this past week, but I didn’t entirely know what to ask for. So instead, I just talked about gratitude.
Grateful that we’ve been able to provide and enjoy baseball all these years. Grateful that we have a daughter already beginning to bloom and write the next chapter ahead of him. Grateful that we’re still here–together, pursuing God, healthy enough to enjoy it all.
Sure, it’s sad. But that’s a good thing.
If it didn’t hurt to imagine losing it, it probably never meant that much in the first place.
So that’s my prayer this week: that I would appreciate the life around me deeply enough that my heart aches at the thought of it changing. Because the ache is proof that the story is worth loving until the very last page.
