What Rayond and Lucy Knew
Most of my strategies for remaining calm and serene once depended upon reassuring myself—and others—that the worst-case scenarios would never come to pass. But lived experience has taught me something different. Contentment is not found in denying the possibility of storms, but in learning to trust that we can endure them.
I have learned this slowly, through trial and error, and by making my own fair share of mistakes over the course of my life—mistakes whose consequences can still make me shiver when I think about them too long. And yet, even those failures have become teachers. Over time, I have come to see that some of our deepest disappointments are not interruptions of the journey, but part of the journey itself. With support, honesty, and compassion, even wounded places can soften into sources of wisdom.
Perhaps wisdom lies not in pretending storms will never come, but in quietly preparing for them. When the winds begin to howl and the rain comes sideways, fear can narrow the horizon and convince us that everything is falling apart. But fear is not always a trustworthy narrator.
I often think of my grandparents on my mother’s side, Raymond and Lucy, who lived in the Southern Appalachians, survived the Great Depression, and later sent sons off to war with no guarantee they would ever return home. Like so many families across Appalachia and throughout the United States during those years, they lived through severe poverty, uncertainty, food insecurity, and economic hardship. They understood instability in ways many of us have been spared. And yet they continued forward—working, loving, grieving, praying, and caring for those around them as best they could.
When I remember Lucy and Raymond, I am reminded that human beings are far more resilient than fear would have us believe. We forget how much strength has already been placed within us through sorrow, friendship, resilience, and the care of those who have walked beside us. And we forget the simplest truth of all: after even the longest night, dawn still comes.
There is usually far more courage within us than we can remember in difficult seasons. Perhaps we should hold more lightly the expectation of a smooth and untroubled life. There will be detours. There will be losses. We may need to stop along the way and steady ourselves before continuing on. But this is not failure. It is part of being human.
At this stage of my life, I would not say that I have mastered the art of living. But perhaps I have learned something quieter and more forgiving: how to limp my way, with a little more wisdom and tenderness, into the next chapter of my life.
