While walking through the campus of a major university I noticed that nearly everyone had one. With books, computers, cell phones, and their lunch to carry, they had to have one. I'm talking about backpacks. It appeared that backpacks were standard equipment for getting though the day.

Whoever designed this big builders'-supply store did not want me to conclude that I am ever finished shopping. As the checkout line channels me past a display of flashlights, I wonder, "Am I sure I have enough?" A few feet farther along, I am cleverly positioned in front of thousands of batteries. This time there's a sign, "Are you sure you have enough?"

Three and a half years ago, I had begun to question whether or not I would ever be a mother. My husband Nate and I were in the beginning stages of the adoption process, a road that seemed so long and winding. I didn't know if we would make it to the end. Now here I sit, writing on my computer as my 22-month-old son naps in his crib.

The four-year-old cried out, "Mom! Dad! I'm afraid. I hear a noise." 

"There's nothing to be afraid of, Son. Go to sleep."

Moments later, now crying: "Dad! Mom! Something's in my room. I can hear it."

This time Dad came upstairs and appeared in the doorway. He listened for a bit, then came and put his arm around his son: "Don't be afraid.

"Please. Please. Please. Don't go!" he pleaded. And his wife slammed the door and left. He had made his share of mistakes. Now he would have plenty of time to think about them and everything that went wrong. The first night passed slowly as he lay alone with nothing but his memories and an empty house. Many more long nights lay ahead.

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It was crystal clear the night before Grandma died. As I walked to the car, the sky was absolutely sparkling with stars and the moon seemed to be sharper and more in focus than I'd ever seen it.

The hospital parking lot was glowing from the lights shining down on the cars, and the city lights, barely visible over the horizon, made it look like there was a soft, unending sunset.

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Six years ago I started my college career at the University of Minnesota in the Twin Cities. As a 19-year-old girl from Wausau, Wis., I had no idea what I was in for as I headed off to the university and to a campus whose population is larger than that of my entire hometown.
 
<p><span>Six years ago I started my college career at the University of Minnesota in the Twin Cities. As a 19-year-old girl from Wausau, Wis., I had no idea what I was in for as I headed off to the university and to a campus whose population is larger than that of my entire hometown.<br> &nbsp;<br><strong>One thing I quickly learned as a student is that you can find just about everything on campus&mdash;</strong>every culture, every religion, every belief, and, of course, every opinion.</span></p>

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When I was pregnant with our daughter, Steve and I, like most first-time parents, were clueless. The way parenthood played out in our minds, we'd take our little bundle home, dress her in pink, know instinctively how to respond to every cry, play and laugh all day, put her to bed at 8, and then sit back, sip wine, enjoy a roaring fire, and sigh at the beatific wonders of parenthood.

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When I was asked to write about transitions, I actually laughed out loud. Why? Because quite frankly my past track record during the major transition periods in my life has been rocky. At my recent wedding shower, my sister told my mother-in-law, "Just so you know, she's not good with big changes. Good luck."

<p>When I was asked to write about transitions, I actually laughed out loud. Why? Because quite frankly my past track record during the major transition periods in my life has been rocky. At my recent wedding shower, my sister told my mother-in-law, "Just so you know, she's not good with big changes. Good luck." <br><br><strong>For me, transitions always seem to end up synonymous with scary; awkward; nervous; strange; stressful; and, did I mention, awkward.</strong></p>

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The fall season had just begun as I set about to finalize my thoughts on aging gracefully. God had begun to paint his world of nature in those beautiful hues of yellow, gold, red and brown, while some trees were still arrayed in their working green. I wondered (almost out loud with surprise) whether the Lord was trying to teach us something about aging in this display.