Are You Ready?

 
I had a conversation with my eighty-five-year-old mother recently. She told me she was ready to go, and then she asked if I was ready for her to go.

I answered honestly. I told her I didn’t think anyone can ever be completely ready to say goodbye to a loved one. 

Her words have lingered with me and as I was mowing the lawn the other day, a memory rose up from a few years back. 

Our family had gathered on a houseboat at Lake Powell. It was one of those rare moments when life slows down enough for everyone to be together in the same place, sharing meals, laughter, and the simple joy of being family. We slept on the top deck beneath the open sky, carrying our mattresses, blankets, and pillows up there getting all set up for sleeping each night. We thought we were doing a good job keeping everything secure in the mornings, but doing a few extra things hoping to keep all sleeping goods protected and safe. 

One afternoon, while we were downstairs getting ready for the day, a sudden gust of wind swept across the lake. It came without warning, the kind of wind that announces a storm before you even see the clouds.

Before we could react, our belongings began to lift and swirl.

Mattresses flipped. Pillows tumbled. Blankets sailed through the air and dropped into the water.

We scrambled in every direction. Some of us jumped into the lake. Others climbed onto jet skis, paddleboards, or canoes. We chased down what we could before it sank. There was shouting and laughing and pointing as we tried to rescue our floating possessions.

Somehow, we saved most of it.

But not everything.

One of my new and  favorite blankets slipped beneath the surface and disappeared. It is still down there somewhere at the bottom of Lake Powell. We thought we had been prepared. We thought we had secured everything well enough.

But the truth was simple.

We were not as ready as we believed.

After gathering what we could, we brought everything below deck before the rain arrived. Sleeping arrangements were different that night. Less comfortable. Less familiar.

But we made it work.

We adjusted. We found a way.

That memory has stayed with me because it mirrors the truth about losing someone we love. We prepare as best we can. We talk about it. We think about it. We try to secure our hearts the way we secured those mattresses and blankets.

But when the moment comes and the wind rises, things still get swept up.

Emotions fly. Memories surface. Parts of us feel scattered. And no matter how much we try to prepare, something precious will always slip beneath the surface and be lost.

You cannot be fully ready for a final goodbye. Not with a mother. Not with anyone who has shaped your life in ways you can barely name.

But you can gather what remains. You can hold close what is still here. You can adjust and adapt and find a new way to live, even when the familiar comfort is gone.

And just like that blanket resting quietly at the bottom of the lake, some losses become part of our story. They settle into the deep places of our hearts to help remind us of love, of time shared, and of the beauty and fragility of life.

When I think back on that day at Lake Powell, I realize the wind didn’t just scatter our belongings. It revealed something true about life itself.

We move through our days believing we have secured everything that matters, believing we have prepared our hearts for the changes we know will come. But life has a way of reminding us that love is not something you can pack neatly or tie down. It lifts, it shifts, it surprises us, and sometimes it slips beneath the surface before we can reach it.

Yet even in those moments, we are not left empty-handed.

We gather what remains.

We hold close what is still here.

We learn to sleep in new places and find comfort in new ways.

And slowly, we discover that readiness is not a requirement for love, nor is it a measure of strength. It is simply a sign that our hearts were shaped by someone whose presence mattered deeply.

Maybe readiness is not the point.

Maybe presence is.

Being here now. Listening. Loving. Holding the moments we still have before the wind begins to rise.

Because love is the very thing that keeps us from ever being fully prepared, and it is also the thing that carries us through when the storm finally comes.

And sometimes, that is enough.