Ready to Begin Again

by Mary Smith

I sat at my kitchen table, my cup of tea cooling beside me, and stared out the window at the garden Charles and I had worked on together for years. The chrysanthemums were still holding on, a last bit of color before the frost came. But even they seemed to know their time was running out. Just like me.

I never imagined that, after Charles’s death, I’d be facing this decision. Six months had passed since I lost him, and everything still felt raw. There were nights when I stretched out in bed, my fingers brushing the empty space beside me, almost expecting him to be there. But of course, he wasn’t. He hadn’t been for a while.

And now, I was preparing to leave this house, this town, this life we built together.

My daughter had been asking me for years to move closer to her, but I always resisted. This town was my home. Our home. The people here weren’t just neighbors, they were family. They’d seen me through the best and worst of times, celebrated birthdays and anniversaries with us, helped me when Charles had his strokes. I knew their faces, their voices, their stories.

I had roots here, deep roots, and pulling them up felt impossible.

But now, I was facing the reality that I wasn’t getting any younger. I knew my independence was slowly slipping away, and the thought of living alone, without family close by, made my chest tighten. So, after much prayer, I agreed to move to the city, to be closer to Kate and the grandkids. Still, as the move got closer, I found myself overwhelmed by a strange sense of grief.

It wasn’t just the loss of Charles that I was mourning. It was the loss of my community, the faces I saw every day at the market, the women I met with for book club, the friends I had shared so much of my life with. I didn’t want to feel like a burden to Kate. I didn’t want her to have to carry the weight of my loneliness, my need for companionship.

But the truth was, I didn’t know how to start over in a new place. And I was terrified.

At night, I prayed. A lot. I’d sit by the window, looking out at the garden one last time, and I’d ask God for courage, for patience, for a little peace. “I don’t know how to do this alone, Lord,” I’d whisper. “But if you want me to go, give me the strength. Help me find my place in this new life. And help me be patient with myself as I make this transition.”

I had always prided myself on being strong—resilient, independent. But now, at 74, everything felt different. The pain of losing Charles still felt so fresh, and now I was facing a new loss—leaving behind everything that had been familiar. It was hard, so hard, to let go. But deep down, I knew this move was the right thing to do. I just wasn’t sure if I was ready for it. One thing I knew, I didn’t want to depend on my daughter to build my new life. Somehow, I had to believe that this would be a new beginning, not just for me but for our family. Slowly, as I prayed more, I began to feel a flicker of hope.

Maybe this wasn’t the end of something but the start of something new.

The transition wasn’t going to be easy. I’d have days when I longed for the comfort of my old life, for the people and places that had defined me for so long. But I also knew that God had a plan for me, even if I couldn’t see it yet. He’d walked with me through so many seasons before. I had to trust He would walk with me through this one too.

One evening, as the sun began to set behind the oak tree in the yard, I whispered another prayer, the words coming a little easier now. “I don’t know where I’m going, Lord, but I know I won’t be alone. You’ll be with me. And that’s enough.”

I didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in a long time, I felt a quiet peace. I was ready to begin again.