Riding the Golden Years
Happily N’ever After – When Sandcastles Fall (Part 7)
“A season of laughter, lessons, and light—woven quietly before the storm.”
The craftsmen of our lives—family, church, and friends—had woven their colorful threads into our growing tapestry. But not every thread was bright. Some had begun to fray at the edges, shadowed by memories I hadn’t yet faced. Still, these were the golden years—days stitched together with laughter, purpose, and grace.
Lightening and I were still blazing through the seasons—sometimes chasing dragons, but mostly galloping toward new adventures. Those were years of learning, of growing, of becoming both student and teacher.
When Corey was not quite four, I accepted the position as Area Director with Child Evangelism Fellowship®. It required a week of out-of-state training—my first time ever being away from the children or my husband. I cried myself to sleep the first three nights. By the fourth, I couldn’t bear it any longer; I drove home late that evening just to see them, then left again before sunrise.
When I told my oldest daughter, Anna, that I didn’t want to go back but needed to, she looked at me—confused and teary-eyed.
“Then why are you going if you don’t want to?” she asked.
I tried to explain that sometimes we do hard things for the greater good. Before I could say more, Corey—sensing both of our hearts—quietly added, “Oh… like Peter and Jesus. Peter didn’t want Jesus to go, but Jesus knew he had to—for Peter, and for everyone else.”
What could I say to that? Out of the mouth of babes.
I completed training, finished my work with Family † Connections™, and began a new chapter with CEF®. Those early years were vibrant—conducting training seminars and workshops, teaching kids’ clubs, and summers leading youth mission teams. Our home became a revolving door of laughter, music, and teenagers devouring snacks after long days of ministry. The girls loved it, especially Corey. The older youth became her mentors, her “big brothers and sisters,” and she mirrored their kindness and energy with a sparkle that was all her own.
One of those missionaries was a young woman named Sonya. Her story carried the same kind of ache I had spent years learning to live beyond—a childhood marked by loss, years spent in an orphanage, and a faith that grew from hard soil. Over time, Sonya became more than a missionary; she became family. She lived with us for nearly two years before leaving for college, and Corey loved her as though she were a true sister.
But even in that season of light, Sonya was learning to face her own shadows. She wrestled with guilt and the ache of abandonment, and I recognized pieces of my own story in her struggle. I took her to the same therapist who had once helped me begin to heal, and I mentored her as best I knew how—just as Flo had once done for me. It felt like a sacred kind of full circle, as if God were quietly teaching me how to weave what I’d learned into someone else’s tapestry.
Even now, Sonya and I stay in touch. She’s married now, with four children, and I was there beside her at the hospital when her second was born. What began as a season of ministry became a lifelong thread of love and redemption—one of many golden threads shining through those bright years before the storm.
Then came a turning point. Some troubling events at the girls’ private school left us unsure where to turn. Public school wasn’t an option, and no other Christian schools were nearby. I prayed for clarity. One morning, while pleading with God about what to do, I sensed an unmistakable nudge: Homeschool.
I laughed out loud. “Not me, Lord. I’m not homeschool material.” But I added, “If this is truly Your will, make it very clear.”
A week later, the girls climbed into the car after church, chattering about a classmate who was homeschooled. “Why can’t we do that?” they asked. I looked heavenward—Is that You, Lord? 🫨
Before long, I was researching curriculum, learning teaching methods, and setting up our little home classroom. It began with trembling and turned into one of the richest seasons of my life. I discovered how deeply I loved teaching—and how much I was still learning.
Our days became a tapestry of lessons and life—baking cookies and delivering them to nursing homes, where the girls learned to listen to stories from wrinkled hands; playing piano and flute for residents who clapped with childlike joy; creating and selling handmade note cards, learning the value of work and giving; traveling for conferences and family trips that expanded their worldviews.
Disney World during off-season became our classroom of wonder. The fireworks, the princesses, the “around-the-world” adventures at Epcot—all of it lit Corey’s imagination like starlight.
They hiked mountains, wrote letters to officials, gave speeches, rode horses, and yes—brought the dogs along for field trips. Those were golden days, threaded with laughter, learning, and love.
Still, even golden threads can fray.
The hardest lesson for me to teach was the one I’d never fully learned myself—about the body, boundaries, and becoming. I used the safest “Christian” materials I could find, but every page carried shadows from a past I’d never voiced. My silence wasn’t born of shame so much as fear—fear that my story might stain their innocence before they were ready to understand it.
I wanted so much to guide them toward safety and light. But it’s hard to lead someone down a path you’re still learning to walk yourself. I taught what I knew—facts, faith, and hope—but not always what I felt. The language for that kind of truth was still tangled in the threads of my own story.
Looking back, I see now: silence, even meant to protect, can echo louder than words.
I wish I had known that the story I was hiding might one day have given them strength sooner.
But love keeps teaching.
And life, even in its heartbreak, keeps weaving lessons through pain.
The years of golden threads—our tapestry on Lightening’s saddle—were bright and beautiful. But in the distance, the woods were darkening. The dragons were stirring again.
Sometimes the seasons that shimmer the brightest are also the ones that quietly prepare us for the breaking. I didn’t know it then, but the very lessons I was teaching—faith, courage, endurance—were the ones I would soon be asked to live. The golden threads that once wove comfort would soon be tested in fire, and the tapestry of our lives would stretch in ways I couldn’t yet imagine.
But for now, the light still lingered.
The laughter still echoed through our home.
And grace, patient and steady, was already waiting in the shadows for its turn to shine—its golden thread glinting quietly in the dusk.
Corey and her favorite sidekick, Twinkie
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