I relate to this poem on some level. I think most of us do. We all have choices to make, roads to take, and none of us has enough time or freedom to explore every option or experience that we might like. That's life, and personally, I think it's a good thing. It forces us to make choices, and then gives us the opportunity to deal with the results of those choices. Whether our roads bring us joy or pain or (as is generally the case) a mixture of the two, it's our life to lead and we have our roads to choose.
On Sunday, I was listening to one of my neighbors. She had been asked to be one of our Sacrament Meeting speakers, and prior to sharing the "doctrinal meat" of her talk, she took a few moments to introduce herself and her little family. We all learned that she and her husband have been married for three and a half years, (Like Eric and me) have a little girl that just turned two (Like Eric and me), and they are expecting another baby in December.
Last April, I found to my joy, that I was expecting another baby. Then, about 5-6 weeks later, I had a miscarriage. That child, had it grown to term, would have been born in December. Experiencing that loss was unsurprisingly, a hard time for me. It was a time full of lots of tears and lots of prayers and lots of loving support, and finally, lots of peace.
So, as I listened to my neighbor last Sunday, looking at her bulging belly, I got a very small glimpse of how I might look and feel if I could have traveled along that particular pregnancy road a little bit longer. As my thoughts lingered there, I waited for the scratchy achy feeling to begin in my throat, for the water to start collecting around my eyes.
But this time at least, it didn't happen.
Which makes me think that maybe I've grown a little bit. Maybe I'm learning to make more peace with what I have (and let's be honest, what I have is amazingly gloriously, stupendously terrific), and have less angst over what I don't. Maybe now I have more appreciation of the road that I'm on, and less regret over the road that I've left.
. . . and perhaps that will make all the difference.