The blog home of speaker and writer Mindy von Atzigen

The blog home of speaker and writer Mindy von Atzigen I am a lover of words, Jesus, and His church. I am also a wife, a mom, and a friend. I hope you'll consider me yours...

When A Bird Flies From The Nest

We'd been home from vacation for half a day before we drove an hour to the wedding of a dear friend's daughter.  She is twenty and she was radiant with joy.  The groom looked even younger than I remembered my 21 year old groom looking, and he was obviously enthralled by his bride.


We've known this beautiful girl since she was a wee thing, maybe five or six years old.  We'd known she was dating someone seriously, but I was still surpised when her father told us she was engaged.  There's nothing that makes you feel your age then the people who are still kids in your mind sending you a wedding invitation.


I wore my best dress and marveled at my husband looking splendid as we drove to the ceremony.  He even bought me a new evening wear handbag on our way.  A quick stop for dinner, and then we were seated in the gorgeous church sanctuary.


The music began.  The groom came out with the preacher.  The doors opened.  She entered.


And that's when it happened.  Tears sprang to my eyes, completely surprising me.  I never cry at weddings.  They're usually too exciting, too fun, and filled with too many things to see to leave room for tears in my eyes.


But this time it was different.


I swallowed and discovered it was difficult with the lump in my throat. 


And then I realized what was happening.


For the first time in my life, I was identifying more with the parents of the bride than the bride herself. 


My heart was aching for the exquisitely beautiful loss that was occurring.


Yes, our friends were gaining a wonderful son-in-law.  They were watching the creation of a new household that will bring them grandchildren and a family legacy.  They were reaping the rewards of years spent in good parenting.


But, they were most definitely experiencing a loss at the same time. 


They were watching their little girl fly right out of their nest, even while they watched her take her place in the world as the friend of their hearts they could be proud to know.


They were closing the door to a parenting chapter in their lives, even as they opened a wider door to the next season.


They were saying goodbye to the girl who had shared their name all her life, even while their lips said hello to the woman who now has a new name.


And I realize it won't be long, really, until it's my daughter who has a new name.  Until it's my son who's responsible for taking care of a wife.  Until we drive home to a nest still warm from the baby birds who have flown away to their own nests.


And that's why I cried.  Out of the ache that comes with recognizing the loss that will come.  And out of gratefulness that I get to have the years that I do with these amazing people I call my children.


And that's why I also laughed and danced at her reception with my still young looking husband.  Out of the sheer joy that comes from God's brilliant idea--family.






Home (reposted)

Author's Note:  As I am returning from vacation, I chose this post from the archives about the glory of coming home.  One of the most frequent spiritual questions my pastor husband is asked is, "What will Heaven be like?"  I think the best answer to that is, "Like returning from a long trip to the home you love."  I pray you are blessed today as you ponder your eternal home.

Growing up in West Texas meant cotton fields and burnt grass and thunderstorms and sunsets that reached from one end of the horizon to the other. It meant dried up tank beds and pump jacks and incessant wind. It meant tractors and cows, boots and skirts, and slow-talking men in donut shops who still went out of their way to open the door for a lady. It meant mesquites for trees, cactus for flowers, and rain showers being the cause for celebrations featuring children in swimsuits running wildly through brown yards and neighbors gathering on porches giving thanks. It meant unlocked doors, Friday night football games, and Sunday afternoon naps after church. It meant catching horned toads and going barefoot and staying out until it got dark. It meant sweet tea and chicken-fried steak, pecan pie and rib-eyes, and gourmet being something that had a sprig of parsley on the side. It meant people whose hearts were as wide open as the sky.
The older I get, the more I realize this land is in my blood. When I come home after being away, I breathe easier and my smile comes faster. Home, with all its faults, is right here where my heart leaps.
And then I find myself wondering, what will this land be like when He comes and makes all things new? How will it reflect His beauty then? What part of Him will be newly birthed in the fields, the trees, the wind? Will I recognize my homeland and all my old lanes of memory, or will I need a welcome tour?
And I find a prayer on my lips that when the time comes, He will take my hand and show me how it was meant to be, the old passed away and the new wine running free.

Collide (reposted)

Author's Note:  As I am vacationing this week, this post was dusted off from the archives and is offered to you as some "recycled" treasure.  I chose this piece as my heart grieved for the fires that rage again this summer, this time in my favorite vacation state--Colorado.  Please join me in prayer for the fires in Colorado, New Mexico, and Wyoming to be put out and for the rain of the Spirit of God to fall upon our nation.

Our friends' ranch burned this week. The horses were saved, the buildings spared, but all the land is charred. And another friend's home threatened, and then another. Wildfires are raging in our West Texas countryside, and the church now has a line-item in the budget labeled "Hotel Rooms for Fire Evacuees." We can often smell the smoke in town, sometimes even see ash fall as we walk to the car and go about our normal routine. Our world is normal, while our friends have been thrown into chaos, everything they have built being threatened by fire.


And in the middle of it, sometime around two in the morning, I sat in the back yard, willing the rain storm I could see in the west to please come our way and collide with the huge orange glow south of town.


Collide.


Won't you come, Lord? Won't you bring the power of who You are and collide with the fires that rage in the earth? Won't you cause Your presence to rain upon the mess we have made, bringing life where we have caused destruction?


I sat for almost an hour, and I couldn't help but stretch my arms out to the sky and with one hand touch the storm and with the other hand touch the fire and with both hands push. Push them together and pray. I prayed the collision that began 2,000 years ago with a baby born in the manger would continue in my life and in the lives of my children and in the lives of my neighbors being ravaged by the drought and the heat and the winds. And I prayed that I would bring the collision, that I would carry it with me and unleash it upon the works of the enemy. I prayed that my life would bring the power of who He is to the fires that rage in the earth and that I would rain His presence, bringing life to those who need to drink of Him.