Life is short, dance while the music plays

“Life is short, get a divorce.” The stark messaging billowed from a billboard perched over the interstate as we recently drove stateside.

Intermixed between advertisements for fried chicken, injury legal representatives, and toll-free salvations, a lawyer begs for business. Life is short, get a divorce.

The irony caused me to chuckle, as the purpose of our trip was for me to officiate the wedding of Rebecca’s sister. With our little family of four packed in tight for the 12-hour car ride and sealed off securely from the roadside messaging, we enjoyed each other’s presence along the journey southbound. We sang Christmas songs as a family, the boys played gleefully in the backseat, and Rebecca and I even had some adult conversations in the front. Life is short, that much is true.

By any metric, our youngest son Aiden’s life has been short thus far. He just celebrated his inaugural trip around the sun. His name means little fire, and he’s surely playing the part. He is a wild child. Expressive and exuberant. His firey spirit is best on display whenever music can be heard. As soon as he hears a beat his body is overcome with jumping, dancing, twisting, and gyrating. It’s a joyous display.

We learned just a few weeks after he was born that he was having a hard time hearing. He spent the better part of his first year unable to hear his mother’s lullabies, his brother’s stories, or my ramblings about the breeding habits of white-tailed deer.

In the summer, we had a procedure performed at McMaster Children’s Hospital that restored his hearing fully. Every time I see him dance, my heart swells with gratitude once again that he can hear. Life is short, sweet Aiden, dance while the music plays.

Sometime throughout the year, our firstborn Asher’s most popular request of us went through a bit of a reformation. “What shall we do?” turned into, “What shall we do? It’s your choice.” (And yes, the word shall is his, not my transliteration).

He began the year nearing three, and like most three-year-olds, he was excited to experience the world on his own terms. Somewhere along the way he began deferring to us. “It’s your choice.” It matters a lot less what we’re doing, and matters a lot more that he’s doing it with the people he loves.

One thing we’ve done a lot of this year is ride bikes. Morning, midday, dinner time, or bedtime, all Asher wants to do is ride his bike. By the time I sit down to write this letter again next year, he’ll be riding his bike across the church parking lot to school. Life is short, dear Asher, ride while the day is light.

If you were to ask our firstborn what his mom does for work, he’d say it plainly: she’s a superhero. I wholeheartedly agree. When Rebecca is at work with women, nurturing them along the journey of gestation and guiding them through the pangs of childbirth, she’s in her sweet spot. A midwife. A superhero.She has just recently gone back to work, but for most of the year she spent her time growing our children ex-utero, tending to the vegetables in our garden, and nurturing people in our faith community. Whether she has her scrubs (cape) on at the hospital or her slippers on at home, one thing remains unchanged; she is heroic. Life is short, Rebecca knows this very well. So she cherishes her time at home, in the dirt, and in the church.

I really couldn’t care less what some billboard on the side of the interstate has to say, but when my wife speaks, I ought to pay attention. She’s been reminding me that life is short for as long as I’ve known her, and I think I’m finally starting to hear her.

It’s why we say I love you every time we leave the house and why our phone calls always end the same. It’s why we turn up the music when Aiden is dancing and why we say yes to riding a bike as often as we can. It’s why we’re rooted in a church, why we eat dinner together every night, and why our phones don’t charge on our bedside tables anymore. 

So friends, life is short. Don’t get a divorce. Love furiously and forgive liberally. Go for a walk, pay attention to the birdsong, skip a stone. In this Christmas season, find the courage to arrange your lives in a way that enables you to be unhurried and unbothered. Say I love you when you get off the phone.

And in all things, may the grace and peace of God be your guide. 

With all of our love,

The Mills Family