Mid-life Crisis Averted

Not so long ago, I was under the impression that the classic "mid-life crisis" was about vanity. Such a phase, I supposed, was the sphere of the youth-obsessed and the worldly, the self-absorbed and the shallow.

The aging socialite going in for a nip and tuck and the graying executive behind the wheel of a brand new Porsche were, to my way of thinking, the poster children for this type of infantile and downright embarrassing late-life episode.

That was before over a dozen happy, harried, hurried years fled by, leaving behind a bewildered woman in her late thirties wondering what ever happened to the time that once seemed to stretch out indefinitely, time I thought would leave numberless opportunities to live out all my plans, to have babies, to write books, time to dream a million dreams and accomplish every one.

Pondering the dizzying rapidity of these years, my mind turned to a specific point in the past. I was twenty-four years old and wearing a dark pink suit with gold buttons. My long hair was curled, and I smiled at the world, pausing now and then to laugh with friends, stepping across a large reception hall, being introduced for the first time to a tall twenty-five year old man….

Looking back upon that blessed moment, I shed a single, almost inexplicable, tear, a tear born not out of any sentiment or sorrow. It was a tear for that long-haired girl. I could read her story now and knew she would have a happy and blessed life, but where was she? Was I still that girl, or was she gone, vanished in the hazy blur of memory?

(Now I realize this thought sounds just as trite and vain and silly as ever a mid-life crisis could, but there is more.)

At that very moment, my husband strode into the living room, mercifully unaware of the deep thoughts scattered round the place like spare throw pillows, plunked down beside me and our placid baby girl on the couch, and said, "Honey, I love you. I have loved you since the first time I met you."

 I am chuckling to think of it now, feeling a bit like the dramatically swooning woman from an old movie speedily treated with smelling salts, or perhaps just a swift pat on the back and an urgent "snap out of it!" Of course I was still that girl — he knew me even without the curls and the gold buttons. In that instant, I saw more clearly than ever before how Christ, through the sacrament of Holy Matrimony, measures out His grace and mercy:

Christ dwells with them, gives them the strength to take up their crosses and so follow Him, to rise again after they have fallen, to forgive one another, to bear one another's burdens, to be subject to one another out of reverence for Christ, and to love one another with supernatural, tender, and fruitful love. In the joys of their love and family life he gives them here on earth a foretaste of the wedding feast of the Lamb" —Catechism of the Catholic Church, Section 1642.

Thus, a perfectly good, budding mid-life crisis was stopped in its tracks, all through Grace and a well-timed kindness.

If I were to attempt to put into words this bittersweet and beautiful time of our life, with the children all still home and a baby asleep in my arms, I would compare it to a long anticipated trip up a mountain. At the outset of the journey, the mountain seemed so grand and imposing. I could not even see the top of it. Much preparation and thought were put into the trip, and my husband and I set out excitedly, confident that endless adventure lay before us, certain we would explore each peak and ridge for a thousand years. Then, before we had even mounted the first hill, I realized we were already at the top with seven dear traveling companions. The summit is sunny and warm, and we are all in a circle round the campfire, yet I am surprised to see that the view beyond is not as far as I had understood it to be. Hold on a minute, I falter, this was supposed to be a long, long trip. How is it the end seems so near?

Just as I am about to feel crestfallen, my husband passes me a pair of binoculars. Lifting them to my eyes, the exuberance returns, for I can see there is more beyond this paltry hill, miles more — the vista goes on forever, rolling and sweeping into the distance, with faraway peaks dappled in a rosy mist only hinting at the endless expedition to come.

It turns out our dear little hill is but a stepping stone, a threshold to a Land of far Greater Promise, our merry campfire a foretaste of the jubilation and cheer to come.

But, for now, how blessed we are to bask in its glow together.

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