(Written in January)

They’re going on a trip - without me. I know that sounds rather dramatic, but it’s true. My husband and older boys will be driving to Des Moines tomorrow after church and flying out bright and early the next morning. The destination? A three-day ski/snowboarding trip in the great, Colorado Rocky Mountains.

The gear is gathered, the tickets are purchased, the bags are packed, the vehicle is loaded, and they are ready! Not to mention excited!

And they should be! My husband was last skiing in Colorado down a double-black named “Wolverine” nearly 20 years ago. He is now returning to that same mountain with his older two - joining his oldest sister’s family and crew.

It will definitely be one of those trips to remember.

I was invited to go. In fact, we all were. And my husband and I spent a fair amount of time talking about and wrestling through the decision of me staying home this year with the younger two and new puppy. There were a handful of other variables at play, and I was 100% a part of the conversation and decision-making process. In the end, wisdom maturely said, “Not this year.”

Part of me is elated that he gets to do this with our boys. The other part of me feels sad and disappointed to be missing out.

And when I spend too much time nursing my disappointment of not accompanying them - much like an injured dog licking at its wound - the joy seems to suck itself out of the room.

And I definitely don’t like that version of myself.

Because if I were the one going to see the mountains for the very first time - I would be excited (to say the least)! And I certainly don’t want to rob that excitement from my boys.

And so, I dawn on my best, most selfless version of myself and imagine myself also going with. I ask myself, How would I behave if I were also the one packing and looking forward to all the fun and festivities?? And with that vision in mind, I smile and laugh, and help them round up all their gear, and ask them to take lots of pictures and send them my way.

But then the pendulum swings the other way - and I realize that I’m actually not needing to pack a bag because I’m not going on the trip. Truth be told, I’m going to miss out. I’m going to be sent a cheaper version of the memory via text that doesn’t truly do the picture justice. And yes, I know that sounds rather dramatic, but it’s true.

The fear of missing out breaks down the door of my heart where peace was just residing; and disappointment, sadness, and anxiety barge right on in.

And that version of myself I despise. So incredibly much. In fact, it’s plagued me most of my adult life. The fear of missing out. Of being left out. Of being forgotten.

And in those weaker, struggling moments, I ask myself a powerful question. One that I’ve set up in place to help me kick out fear and anxiety and get my heart back in order with peace being the loudest thing.

I ask myself,

“Is the sunset still spectacular?”

To which I answer, “Of course. It always is.”

If a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear it, did it still make a sound?

This is is a philosophical thought experiment that raises questions regarding observation and knowledge of reality. Scientifically, the answer would be yes. Just because there is no one in the forest to hear the sound does not mean that the sound did not take place. If one were to place a tape recorder in the forest, then later play the recording after a tree fell, then we would know that the sound occurred.

In March of last year, my family and I were blessed to spend nearly two weeks at a condo on the beach. My husband and I had a standing date every single night to watch the sunset. We even worked our meals around that window of time when the sun would slip itself deep into the ocean horizon. Every single night the sunset was different, and every single night, spectacular. I know this because I was there to experience it.

And then just recently, a friend sent me a picture of a sunset. She was staying at that same condo, on that same beach, watching that same sun set itself deep into the ocean horizon.

I looked at the picture on my phone in my hand and whispered under my breath, “Spectacular.”

The only difference from when I was there to when she was there was that she was the one experiencing that particular sunset - and not me.

I didn’t get to witness it. It did, however, happen. And it was still gorgeous.

A tree can fall in the forest and no one can hear it; nonetheless, the tree still fell with a great thud. And the sun can slip into an ocean horizon and no one can witness it, but not one hint or hue of color would be taken away from its beauty. It would still be gorgeous. Still spectacular - whether or not you were there to hear it or witness it or experience it.

And something I’m actively working on and growing in is rejoicing in a sunset, or a trip, or a win - whether it’s mine or not to experience, appreciate, or enjoy.

The Bible puts it this way:

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.”

Romans 12:15

Our sin nature tends to rejoice with those who mourn, and mourn with those who rejoice. But imitating Christ thinks and acts differently. It’s rejoicing in a sunset you didn’t get to watch and celebrating a trip you didn’t get to go on.

And when we do that, we’re set free from the grip of fear’s missing out. And the feeling? Well, it’s rather spectacular.