Still Becoming

Today I turn 64.

Even as I write those words, there’s a quiet mix of disbelief and gratitude in my heart. Sixty-four years. That’s a lot of living—more joy and sorrow, laughter and loss, lessons and grace than one heart could have imagined holding. Yet here I am, still learning, still healing, still believing that life, even with all its ups and downs, is a gift.

There’s something sacred about reaching this age. You begin to see time differently. You no longer count the years by milestones or achievements but by moments—small, quiet, often unnoticed ones that end up meaning the most. The laughter shared across the table. The sound of rain against the window. The touch of a hand that still fits perfectly in yours.

I’ve learned that growing older isn’t about letting go of youth—it’s about embracing a deeper kind of beauty. The kind that lives in resilience. In wisdom earned through tears. In faith that’s been tested and found unshakable.

When I look back over my life, I see a tapestry woven with so many colors—some bright and joyful, others dark and heavy—but all of them part of the same story. The story of a woman who has loved deeply, lost deeply, and found strength in the spaces between.

There have been seasons of laughter so loud it filled the room, and seasons of silence so thick it felt like the world had forgotten how to speak. There have been dreams that came true in ways I never expected and prayers that were answered with “not yet” or “not that way.” And through it all, there has been grace. So much grace.

This past decade especially has changed me in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Watching Tim walk through the valleys of depression, anxiety, and PNES has stretched every part of my faith. It’s tested my patience, deepened my compassion, and taught me that love isn’t proven in ease—it’s proven in endurance. There’s something sacred in standing beside someone in their struggle, holding their hand when their strength falters, and whispering, “You’re not alone. We’ll get through this.”

We’ve both learned that healing doesn’t always come in the way you hope. Sometimes it comes quietly—through laughter returning after a long silence, through calm after chaos, through nights where seizures stay away and peace settles in. We’ve learned that love isn’t about fixing what’s broken—it’s about believing that even in the brokenness, there’s beauty.

At 64, I’ve come to understand that peace isn’t found in what you can control. It’s found in surrender—in trusting that God still knows what He’s doing even when life doesn’t make sense. There were years I tried to fight every storm, to manage every detail, to hold everything together out of fear of losing it. But slowly, God has taught me how to rest in His hands, to breathe through the uncertainty, to see that even when the world feels fragile, His promises are not.

And I see that now more than ever.

Because turning 64 isn’t just about age—it’s about perspective. It’s about realizing that the wrinkles and scars, the laughter lines and the tired eyes, are all proof of a life lived fully. They tell the story of survival. Of grace that showed up on the hardest days. Of faith that didn’t give up even when I wanted to.

I used to think growing older meant slowing down or losing relevance. But now I see it differently. Growing older means you finally understand what matters—and you stop apologizing for holding on to it. You start saying “no” to the noise and “yes” to peace. You stop needing approval and start craving authenticity. You stop chasing the next thing and start cherishing the now.

Today, I feel deep gratitude for the people who’ve walked this road with me. For my family—for Tim, who has taught me what steadfast love really looks like. For the friends who have shown up when life felt too heavy. For my grandson Gavin, who reminds me that joy can be loud and messy and wonderful. For every soul who has touched my life, even briefly, and left a bit of light behind.

There’s something special about being in this chapter of life. You stop taking things for granted. You notice how beautiful ordinary days are. You start to understand that the things you used to rush past—the morning light spilling through the window, the quiet cup of coffee, the sound of the wind outside—those are the very things that make life rich.

At 64, I’ve learned that contentment doesn’t come from having everything you want—it comes from wanting what you have. From waking up each morning and saying, “Thank You, Lord, for another day to try again.”

And yes, there are still moments of worry. There are still nights when fear sneaks in and whispers that life is uncertain, that the road ahead might be rough. But then I remember how far I’ve come—how many valleys I’ve walked through, how many storms I’ve survived—and I remind myself: I’ve made it through every single bad day so far. God hasn’t failed me yet, and He won’t start now.

That doesn’t mean life is easy. It just means I no longer expect it to be. I’ve made peace with the imperfection, the waiting, the mystery. I’ve learned that sometimes the miracle isn’t in what changes—but in the strength to keep believing while it doesn’t.

When I was younger, I thought happiness was something you found. Now I know it’s something you create. You build it out of gratitude, out of small joys, out of moments that remind you that you’re still alive and still capable of love.

And that’s what I want this year to be about—love. Not just the easy, romantic kind, but the deep, steady, everyday kind. The kind that forgives, that listens, that stays. The kind that believes in healing, that builds bridges instead of walls, that chooses hope again and again.

Because the older I get, the more I realize that love—real love—is what holds this world together. It’s what lifts us when grief feels unbearable. It’s what keeps us from giving up when the world feels cold. It’s what reflects the heart of God most clearly: unwavering, undeserved, unending love.

So today, as I turn 64, I’m not making a list of goals or resolutions. I’m making a declaration: that I will keep living with gratitude. That I will keep looking for beauty even in the hard places. That I will keep choosing joy, keep choosing peace, keep choosing faith—even when it’s hard.

I want to spend whatever years I have left loving well, living honestly, and trusting deeply. I want to leave behind a legacy not of perfection, but of perseverance. I want to be remembered as someone who didn’t give up when life got hard, who believed in the power of grace, who pointed people to hope when everything else felt hopeless.

And more than anything, I want to keep walking hand in hand with the One who’s carried me this far—the Keeper of the Stars, the Giver of Grace, the Healer of Hearts.

Because every breath I take, every sunrise I see, every quiet moment of peace—it’s all a reminder that I’m still here for a reason. That my story isn’t over. That God is still writing.

So today, I turn 64.

Not afraid of aging. Not bitter about what’s behind me. Just thankful.

Thankful for the lessons. Thankful for the laughter. Thankful for the strength I didn’t know I had until I needed it. Thankful for the love that still surrounds me, even in quiet rooms. Thankful for the faith that’s carried me through storms and brought me into sunlight again.

And thankful that through it all, even with the ups and downs, I can say this with peace in my heart:

Life is still beautiful.

And I’m still becoming everything God intended me to be.