đSunday Reflection: How Love Changes from 26 to 66 đď¸
âTwo are better than one⌠If either of them falls down, one can help the other up.â â Ecclesiastes 4:9-10
At 26, love may look like flowers, long conversations, and not wanting the evening to end.
At 66, love may look like a husband driving you to a doctorâs appointment and pulling up to the door so you donât have to walk as far.
At 26, love may say, âDo you really have to go?â
At 66, love may say, âCall me when youâre ready, and Iâll pull the car around.â
Love changes through the years, but when it is rooted in faithfulness, it does not become less beautiful.
It becomes deeper.
The grand gestures may become fewer, but the quiet acts of care become more precious.
A hand held.
A ride to an appointment.
A cup of coffee waiting in the morning.
Someone who notices when youâre tired.
Someone who stays.
Perhaps one of Godâs sweetest gifts is allowing us to discover that love is not measured by how loudly it speaks, but by how faithfully it remains.
đ Love isnât just about being 26. Itâs about being blessed enough to reach 66 together and finding that after all those years, the simplest words can still mean the most:
âIâm here.â
If this kind of quiet moment speaks to you, youâre always welcome at Rosemary Thyme. đ
When I first moved in with my husband, I left behind my little dog Skippy with my elderly parents, because they loved him deeply too.
I remember carrying that heartbreak quietly.
Sometimes people think love begins in the big moments, but often it begins in the gentle ones.
My husband already had a two-year-old Labrador named Toffee, but he knew how much I missed Skippy. Not long after, he surprised me with a Labrador puppy of my own.
I named her Duchess. đ
Looking back now, I realize it wasnât really about being given a puppy.
It was about being loved tenderly.
It was about someone noticing grief that I hadnât fully put into words and trying to help carry it with kindness.
My husbandâs confirmation name is Francis, after Saint Francis of Assisi, and it is so fitting for him.
Saint Francis once said:
âWhere there is charity and wisdom, there is neither fear nor ignorance.â
There has always been something deeply gentle in my husbandâs heart toward animals and living things. I think tenderness is one of the quiet ways love reveals itself most clearly.
And maybe that is why peace at home matters so much to me now.
Not because life has always been easyâŚ
but because love, at its best, makes room for softness in a hard world.
âThe Lord bless you and keep you;
the Lord make His face shine upon you and be gracious to you.â
September 11, 2001, is one of those days when most of us can remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when we realized something terrible was happening.
I remember the enormous grief I felt as the news unfolded. I thought about the people who had gone to work that morning, the passengers aboard the airplanes, the first responders running toward danger, and all the families whose lives were suddenly and forever changed.
I remember fear, too.
None of us knew what might happen next. We didnât yet understand the full scope of what had happened or whether more attacks were coming.
But while something extraordinary and frightening was happening beyond our home, inside our kitchen something very ordinary was happening.
My children needed breakfast.
Olivia was only one year old, and Zachary was three. They sat in their high chairs at our kitchen table, and I sat between them as I always didâspoon-feeding Olivia and helping Zachary with his food.
I kept our morning routine.
After breakfast, I got out their toys, and their little day continued. They were much too young to understand what was happening. In the background, I listened to the news and tried to comprehend what was happening to our country.
Looking back after all these years, I realize there was something important in that ordinary routine.
In moments of crisis, we remain constant.
We make breakfast. We care for the people who depend upon us. We keep the familiar rhythms of home going even when the world beyond our doors suddenly feels terribly uncertain.
And that particular morning, there was something else quietly resting in my heart.
Only four months earlier, Olivia had come home from India.
Now she was sitting beside me in her high chair.
She was home. She was safe.
As I listened to stories of families experiencing unimaginable loss, I felt enormous grief for them. I felt fear about what might happen next.
And at the very same time, I felt profound relief and gratitude that my daughter was safely home.
It wasnât gratitude instead of grief.
It was gratitude in the midst of grief.
Perhaps that is one of the things September 11 still teaches me twenty-five years later.
We cannot control everything happening beyond our doors. We can remain aware. We can prepare wisely. We can pray for our country and for those entrusted with protecting it.
And then we return to what God has placed within our careâthe people we love, the home we tend, the meals we prepare, and the ordinary responsibilities of another day.
Sometimes remaining constant is itself an act of faith.
đ A Prayer for September 11
Lord, help us to be watchful without being fearful, informed without being consumed, and prepared without losing our peace.
Protect our country and those who guard it. Watch over those who serve in places we may never see and in ways we may never know.
Comfort the families who still carry the losses of September 11. Help us remember those whose lives ended that morning and those who ran toward danger to help others.
When the troubles of the world make us afraid, remind us to do what we can, love those entrusted to us, and place what we cannot control into Your hands.
And even in difficult times, teach us never to overlook the blessings already safely gathered around our own table.
Amen. đ
đşđ¸ We remember.
Helene Rosemary Thyme đż Fall In Love With Home Again đđĄ
Sunday Reflection | The Ordinary Choices That Build a Lifetime
Today after Mass, Dennis and I shared a special brunch at one of our familyâs favorite places. As we sat together, memories came rushing back of bringing Zach and Livvy there when they were little. They loved walking through the buffet, carefully choosing what they wanted on their plates, and watching their excitement always made us smile.
It was a simple meal, but it became much more than that because of the sermon we had just heard.
Today our priest recognized a couple celebrating their 60th wedding anniversary. His message wasnât that sixty years had been easy. Quite the opposite. He spoke about the ordinary struggles every family facesâhealth concerns, financial pressures, raising children, disappointments, unexpected turns in lifeâand how lasting marriages are built one day at a time.
His words stayed with me:
Every day they chose each other.
Every day they chose Christ to walk beside them.
Those words touched my heart because Dennis and I find ourselves in one of those ordinaryâbut difficultâseasons right now.
An unexpected knee injury has led us down a path we never anticipated. Weâve spent the past weeks discussing surgery, recovery, stairs in our home, physical therapy, and how to safely navigate the weeks ahead. None of these are conversations we wanted to have, yet they are part of the journey we have been given.
As I looked across the table today, I realized that love is often found in these very moments.
It is found in making difficult decisions together.
It is found in encouraging one another when the future feels uncertain.
It is found in choosing patience instead of frustration.
It is found in trusting that even when we cannot see the entire path ahead, God already can.
Looking back over the years, I realize our marriage has never been defined by the easy seasons. It has been strengthened through the difficult ones. We have faced joys and sorrows, celebrations and disappointments, unexpected diagnoses, and countless ordinary days that no one else ever sees.
Through it all, one thing has remained constant.
Jesus has walked beside us.
Not because life has been free from hardship, but because His presence has carried us through it.
Perhaps that is what a faithful marriage truly isânot the absence of storms, but two people continuing to hold each otherâs hand while trusting the One who calms the waves.
Todayâs brunch was a reminder that even in difficult seasons, it is good to pause, to laugh together, to remember happy family moments, and to thank God for the blessings that still surround us.
The ordinary choices we make each day may seem small.
But over time, they become a lifetime.
May we continue to choose kindness, faith, forgiveness, gratitude, and one another.
And above all, may we continue to choose Christ, who faithfully walks with us through every season.
As we begin a new week, may we remember that the strongest homes are not built on perfect days, but on ordinary choices made with love, grace, and faith. And may we never forget that Christ walks beside us through every season.
âA cord of three strands is not quickly broken.â â Ecclesiastes 4:12
âA time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.ââ¨â Ecclesiastes 3:4
There are moments in history that become woven into the memories of a family.
I was only four years old when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated in November of 1963. I was far too young to understand politics, or even to fully understand what had happened. But I understood that something was terribly wrong.
I remember my parents becoming very emotional over President Kennedyâs death. I remember my sisters crying as we watched the funeral on television. And even as a little girl, I could feel the sadness that seemed to have settled over our home and across the entire country.
There was another reason our family watched that funeral so closely.
My brother was attending the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis at the time, and as the naval midshipmen appeared during the funeral ceremonies, my sisters and I searched the television screen, hoping we might catch a glimpse of him among them.
So intertwined with my memory of a nation mourning its president is this very ordinary family memory: sisters sitting together, watching television, grieving with their parents, and looking through rows of young men in uniform for their brother.
All these years later, I am struck by how much children notice.
We may not understand the words being spoken around us. We may not understand history, politics, tragedy, or death. But we understand the faces of the people we love. We notice when our mother cries. We notice when our father grows quiet. We know when the world inside our home suddenly feels different.
Scripture reminds us that life contains many seasons.
There is a time to laugh and a time to weep. There is a time to celebrate and a time to mourn.
Faith does not ask us to pretend that sorrow does not exist. It gives us a place to carry it.
And perhaps that is one reason certain memories remain with us for a lifetime. They remind us not only of what happened, but of who stood beside us when it happened.
Today, as I remember November 1963, I remember President Kennedy and a nation stunned by tragedy.
But I also remember my family.
I remember my parents.
I remember my sistersâ tears.
I remember searching the television screen for my brother.
And I remember a four-year-old little girl who could not possibly understand everything she was witnessing, but somehow understood that it mattered.
Our homes hold these memories for us.
The joyful ones.
The painful ones.
The ordinary ones.
And together, they become part of the story of a family.
There is indeed a time to mourn. And there is also a time to remember.
đż Helene Rosemary Thyme đżđ Fall in Love with Home Again đđ
Helene
