The Weight and Wonder of Time

“To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.” — Ecclesiastes 3:1 (NKJV)

I don’t know if it’s the early twinkle of Christmas lights, or the way my 17-year-old son seems just a little more independent every day—or maybe it’s a little of both—but I’ve found myself in a season I’m not entirely comfortable with. A season I’m both savoring and silently fearing.

They say there are only 940 Saturdays between a child’s birth and their eighteenth birthday. That number hit me like a calendar countdown—a deadline. Lucky for me, we waited to send my little Jude to K4, so I’ve been granted a small extension—just over 1,000 Saturdays before August 2027, when he heads off to college. By my count, that leaves about 93 Saturdays left. Ninety-three more weekends to hold on… and ninety-three to practice letting go.

A few years back, my husband and I made a pact: before Jude spreads his wings, we’ll make every summer epic. At 16, we conquered Arizona, Utah, and Nevada—three National Parks, Monument Valley, Hoover Dam, Lake Mead. At 17, we road-tripped through five more parks, wandered San Francisco, and cruised Highway 1 to LA. At 18? We’re planning Yellowstone, Grand Teton, Glacier… maybe even Europe before college.

We’re doing our best to make time visible—to fill it with things that matter, to measure it not by calendars but by memories.

Being essentially an only child, a rainbow baby, and the youngest of three much older siblings, Jude has had our full attention from day one. And now, I’m beginning to hear those dreaded words echo in the distance: empty nest. Such a cute little phrase for impending doom.

My husband and I have plans for life after this chapter—we really do. We’re excited for what’s next for Jude, and for us. But I can’t help glancing at the clock. Time has never felt so tender.

When Jude was a baby, older moms used to tell me, “Enjoy every moment; it goes by so fast.” At the time, I smiled politely. Now, I want to find every one of those women and hug them. They were right.

These days, I’m not just moving through time—I’m treasuring it. My phone is bursting with photos and videos and I’m loving the man he’s becoming.

It’s a holy thing, really—watching someone you’ve taught, guided and prayed over, turn into a genuinely amazing human being. I’m thankful for all the time we’ve had. I’m thankful for all the time I still have. And I’m thankful for the next season, whatever it looks like, because I know the Lord will be in it, too.

There truly is a time to hold on, and a time to let go. And when we trust that God has already ordained both, we can stop fighting the clock. We can breathe. We can rest. We can see time not as an enemy, but as a gift.

So until my last Saturday with a “kid” still at home, I’ll be right here—heart-eyed emoji face, camera in hand, soaking in every second the Lord gives me. Because this season—this time—was made for a purpose.