When The Oil is Almost......

There comes a quiet, terrifying moment when life shifts from someday to soon.

Not announced by trumpets or diagnoses alone, but by a deep, inward knowing. A slowing. A narrowing. The realization that the years ahead may now be counted not in decades, but in months… maybe a single turning of the calendar.

It is a strange thing to stand at the edge of time and look backward and forward at once.

Looking back, everything feels heavier. The good shines brighter than it ever did when it was happening—laughter around tables, ordinary mornings, the sound of voices that once filled the house. At the same time, the broken places ache louder. Regrets that once whispered now speak plainly. Words never said. Apologies delayed too long. Time wasted on things that never mattered as much as we pretended they did.

There is mourning in this reckoning.

We grieve not only what was lost, but what never came to be. The dreams that stayed dreams. The version of ourselves we meant to become. The relationships we assumed we would one day fix.

And then there is death—no longer a distant idea, but a presence. A face you must finally look at without flinching.

Surprisingly, it is not only fear that lives there.

There is also clarity.

When time grows short, false hopes lose their shine. The frantic bargaining quiets. The need to control outcomes loosens its grip. What remains is a fierce resolve: whatever time is left will not be wasted pretending tomorrow is guaranteed.

What remains is love.

It shows up in unexpected, ordinary flashes.

The sound of grandchildren laughing so hard they can’t catch their breath. Sticky fingers grabbing mine. Small arms wrapping around my neck as if I am the safest place in the world. The way their laughter feels like medicine and grief all at once—joy so full it almost hurts because I know how fast moments turn into memories.

It shows up in watching my children become adults.

I remember when I could fix everything with a kiss or a rule. Now I watch from a distance as they make choices—some wise, some painful—and learn lessons I cannot spare them from. I see their strength forming in the very places I once wanted to shield them. I see them stumble, stand back up, and become who they are meant to be without my constant guidance.

There is pride there. And heartbreak. And humility.

Loving them now means trusting what I planted, even when I don’t get to see the harvest. It means releasing control and believing that God is still writing their stories long after I am gone.

If life is narrowing, then let it narrow toward these moments. Sitting longer on the floor instead of rushing past it. Listening more than correcting. Letting laughter interrupt grief. Choosing presence over productivity.

Leaving behind not perfection, but love that was felt.

This is where faith becomes painfully real.

Scripture tells the story of a widow in Zarephath during a devastating famine. She had reached the end—just a handful of flour and a little oil. Enough for one final meal before death would come for her and her son. When the prophet Elijah asked her to give first from what little she had, it sounded unreasonable, even cruel.

But God met her at the edge.

The promise was not abundance stored away. There was no overflowing barn, no visible surplus. Instead, there was enough. Day after day. Meal after meal. The oil did not run out. The flour did not fail.

God gave her what she needed—but not more.

And maybe that is one of the hardest lessons at the end of life.

We want excess. Certainty. Extra time. Extra strength. Extra answers.

But God often offers daily provision instead of long-range guarantees. Grace sufficient for today. Strength measured for now. Hope that does not erase death, but carries us through it.

Standing here, with the oil running low, I am learning that this is not abandonment. It is intimacy.

God is still in control—even when control slips from our hands. He is still faithful—even when outcomes feel unresolved. He is still good—even when the miracle looks like endurance instead of escape.

If this is the last season, then let it be honest. Let it be gentle. Let it be generous.

Let it be marked by love poured out, not hoarded. By faith exercised, not explained away. By peace that does not come from having more time, but from trusting the One who holds time itself.

Like the widow, I may not see tomorrow’s supply today.

But I see the God who sustains it.

And for now—for this day—that is enough.

1 Kings 17:13-16 ESV

And Elijah said to her, “Do not fear; go and do as you have said. But first make me a little cake of it and bring it to me, and afterward make something for yourself and your son. For thus says the LORD, the God of Israel, ‘The jar of flour shall not be spent, and the jug of oil shall not be empty, until the day that the LORD sends rain upon the earth.’” And she went and did as Elijah said. And she and he and her household ate for many days. The jar of flour was not spent, neither did the jug of oil become empty, according to the word of the LORD that he spoke by Elijah.

One Year Later and Still Standing On the Rock

Tomorrow morning marks one year since Bruce stepped off a train and our world cracked open.

It was an ordinary morning—until it wasn’t. One step, one moment, and suddenly life divided itself into before and after. There was no warning, no time to brace ourselves. Just the shattering realization that everything we assumed was solid could change in an instant.

As this anniversary approaches, I find myself a kaleidoscope of emotions. Gratitude and grief collide. Fear lingers beside relief. There is thankfulness that Bruce is still here, and there is mourning for the parts of life that will never return to what they were. Both are true. Both exist at the same time.

Faith does not erase this tension. It doesn’t numb the ache or tidy it into something easily explained. Instead, faith gives me a place to stand inside it.

“The Lord is my rock, my fortress and my deliverer; my God is my rock, in whom I take refuge.”

—Psalm 18:2

When everything else shifted, God did not. When the ground beneath our feet felt unstable, He remained solid. I didn’t always feel brave. I didn’t always feel hopeful. But I clung to the truth that my footing was never meant to be in outcomes, diagnoses, or plans—it was always meant to be in Him.

This past year has taught me that strength is often quieter than we imagine. It looks less like courage and more like endurance. Less like confidence and more like showing up again, even when you are exhausted. There were days when strength felt completely out of reach—when prayer sounded more like silence and faith felt thinner than I was comfortable admitting.

And yet, God never asked me to manufacture strength.

“So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

—Isaiah 41:10

I didn’t hold everything together this year—God did. He upheld us in hospital rooms and waiting areas, in long nights and fragile mornings, in the slow and often unseen work of healing. His presence didn’t remove the fear, but it met us inside it. His strength didn’t always feel dramatic, but it was faithful.

One year later, I am still learning how to live in this altered landscape. I am learning that trusting God doesn’t mean I stop grieving. It means I grieve with my hands open instead of clenched. It means I return, again and again, to the Rock when the memories rush in and the “what ifs” grow loud.

Tomorrow will come, heavy with remembrance. And when it does, I will not pretend it is easy. I will simply remember where my refuge is.

Not in what was. Not in what might have been. But in the God who has not let go—then or now.