A quiet moment on my 70th birthday — grounded, grateful, and open to what comes next.
Turning seventy feels like standing at a quiet threshold.
Not an ending.
A beginning.
I have always used my birthday as a day of reflection — a personal new year of sorts — a time to look honestly at where I have been and gently consider where I am being invited to go in the year ahead.
This year, that pause feels especially sacred.
Crossing into my seventh decade is not something I take lightly. It feels like a turning point — a moment of conscious arrival — traveling not away from life, but more deeply into it.
I know that may sound unusual, but it is the truest thing I can say. At seventy, I feel more inside my life than ever before — less rushed, less defended, more present.
This past year — the final year of my sixth decade — held more than I could have imagined.
Moments of deep joy.
Moments of fear that returned without warning.
Moments so tender they feel stitched directly into my heart.
When Hope and Fear Walked Side by Side
We celebrated Noemi’s cancer remission in August — a day of light, gratitude, and cautious joy.
And then, heartbreakingly, cancer returned in December.
This year taught me that hope does not disappear when fear enters the room.
They walk together.
Love remains — steady, fierce, and unyielding.
During this year, Patrick & I were able to spent a month with Noemi, moving through new places together, creating memories that were not loud or dramatic, but deeply eternal.
These are the moments I will carry forever.
Family, Presence, and the Gift of Time
In February, Jamie arrived and spent time with Patrick and me — one of those quiet gifts that anchors a season in memory.
We traveled to the Cape for Nix and Matt’s wedding, celebrating Patrick’s children, staying in beautiful places, and gathering laughter, love, and shared history into something that felt whole.
Ben’s wedding arrived too — and my heart was full and heavy all at once.
Because of my knee, I could not go.
Learning how to hold pride and grief together was one of this year’s quieter lessons.
The Body’s Lessons in Patience
In April, I underwent knee debridement and learned that I would need a full knee replacement.
What followed was eight months of waiting — insurance refusals, discomfort, and the slow work of patience.
And yet, even then, life kept offering beauty.
I walked through the Cango Caves, surrounded by ancient wonder.
I rested with Patrick at Wildehondekloof — a place that softened something in me.
I learned that moving forward doesn’t always mean moving quickly.
Beauty That Arrived Unexpectedly
There were moments of pure, luminous beauty this year.
Sitting inside Feather Hall with my beloved Patrick, surrounded by thousands of candles, listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons.
Celebrating Noemi’s 50th birthday — and her remission — on August 13th.
And on my birthday, receiving the beautiful news that Patrick’s stage 4 cancer remains in remission — a gift beyond words.
Marking the 25th anniversary of our book club — a testament to stories, community, and staying.
Renovations at home — bathrooms transformed — reminding me that renewal can be both practical and joyful.
These moments did not arrive loudly.
They arrived as grace.
Friendship, Culture, and Widening the Heart
I attended a yoga retreat and met Razia, and from that meeting grew a friendship I treasure. Through her and her friends, I was welcomed with open hearts, shared meals, and generous hospitality. Being invited into their homes, their traditions, and their food gave me a glimpse into another world — one I received with deep appreciation and a very full heart.
Lunch at her home.
Meeting her friends.
Learning through presence.
All of it widened my heart.
Adventures with Noemi filled the year:
Kragga Kamma.
Razia’s special teas.
Watching The Art Effect together.
A Sunday River cruise — lightning, storm, and all.
Cape St. Francis — with my beautiful Sister-in-love and Peter.
The Featherbed cruise.
Even standing in a mall during a robbery reminded me how fragile — and precious — ordinary moments are.
Choosing Purpose and Presence
This year, I stepped into a new role — becoming the editor of Lumen magazine for a year.
A quiet offering of service, creativity, and commitment.
I also signed up for availability at a retirement home — not as surrender, but as preparation.
A gentle acknowledgment of the future, held with care rather than fear.
And even now, I can see light on the horizon.
I hold the quiet hope of moving freely again — of reclaimed ease, renewed strength, and long, unhurried walks with Patrick and Bacchus. I look forward to traveling once more: visiting my daughter in her new home in Florida, and finally making the long-awaited journey to see my son and his growing family.
These are not grand ambitions.
They are simple, sacred hopes — small sparkles of light that carry me forward, reminding me that much still awaits.
Seventy, and Still Becoming
At seventy, I don’t feel finished.
I feel formed.
Less interested in proving.
More committed to truth.
More devoted to beauty, creativity, love, and presence.
If this past year taught me anything, it is this:
I don’t need to become someone new.
I am simply being invited to become more myself.
As I step into my seventh decade, I carry deep gratitude for every joy, every ache, and every moment that dared to stay. I look toward the year ahead with gentle intention — not striving, but choosing a way of walking. I cross this quiet threshold with faith, grace, and peace.
A Prayer for the Year Ahead
Gracious God,
As I step into this new decade,
I thank You for the years behind me —
for the lessons, the love, the losses, and the light.
I ask for a heart that remains open,
even when the road is uncertain.
For wisdom to know when to rest
and courage to keep walking forward.
May I live gently,
loving deeply,
and seeing beauty where others may overlook it.
May my life be a blessing —
not only to those beside me,
but to all who come behind me.
Let my words offer hope.
Let my presence offer peace.
Let my hands remain open in service and love.
Guide my steps.
Anchor me in grace.
And help me walk this seventh decade
with trust, gratitude, and joy.
Amen.
As I step into my seventh decade, I do so carrying both gratitude and grief — for they are no longer strangers to one another in my life.
We are holding much right now.
The weight of Noemi’s journey.
The sorrow of saying goodbye to Mister, whose quiet presence and gentle love were stitched into our days.
The uncertainty of my own body as I prepare for knee replacement and a season of enforced stillness.
None of this cancels the beauty of this year.
And none of the beauty erases the ache.
So I do not step forward with certainty.
I step forward with trust.
I cross this quiet threshold knowing that love does not disappear in difficult seasons — it deepens. That grace is not the absence of pain, but the strength to remain tender within it. And that even now, even here, life is still asking me to walk gently, faithfully, and present.
With love, grace, and an open heart,
Renée
