This week, I found myself attending both a baby shower and a funeral—two events that could not be more different, yet each deeply sacred in its own right. One welcomed a brand-new life, full of promise and possibility. The other honored a life unexpectedly cut short, but beautifully and fully lived. The circle of life, laid out plainly before me.
At the shower, the mother-to-be was wrapped in joy and generosity, love given in bundles, hopes whispered in every gift and every embrace. At the funeral, the room overflowed with people who had been touched by the woman we lost—testimonies of her strength, her laughter, her steady care. Both gatherings were celebrations. One of beginnings. One of endings. Both, unmistakably, about love.
I almost didn’t attend either event. Life’s demands made it difficult. But I’m so glad I went. It is always worth showing up for the moments that mark our lives and the lives of those we love. To bear witness. To offer presence. To be part of the blessing. What a gift it was to hold both joy and sorrow in the same breath. To feel the weight of our shared humanity. To hug people—not in passing, but with intention. To say, “You matter.”
Both rooms were full. Full of people who showed up. A reminder that we are not meant to do life alone. We need each other in the celebration and in the grief. In the beginning and at the end.
At the baby shower, I was taken back to the days I carried my own children—those long months of wonder and worry. What would they be like? How could I keep them safe? How would I prepare them for this wild and beautiful life? Children are a gift from God, His reward, and what a magnificent reward they are. Raising my two was the greatest joy I’ve known. It still is, even though the raising is done. The parenting never really ends.
At the funeral, I listened to the daughters of my husband’s beloved relative speak with such love, respect, and admiration. Their mother had clearly loved them well. She lived with faith, compassion, and courage. Her life was not perfect, but it was impactful. Her legacy was evident in their tears, in their words, in their strength.
And as I sat there, in both places, I couldn’t help but ask myself: Am I living the life I want to be remembered for? Will those I love feel the impact of my love when I’m no longer here to give it? Will they have words of gratitude or simply silence? What kind of legacy am I leaving in the in-between?
Because that’s what it all comes down to—the in-between. The space between our first breath and our last. That’s where the meaning is. That’s where we love and forgive and try and fail and get back up again. That’s where we build a life that speaks for itself long after we’re gone.
And we don’t get to know how much time we have. So we must choose now. Choose to live with intention. Choose to love well. Choose to show up—for the joy and the sorrow. For the baby showers and the funerals. For each other.
Because in the end, that’s what matters most. That we loved. That we were loved. And that we didn’t walk through it all alone.
The Red Plaid Apron 