Over a long life we learn that good things don’t last, but neither do the bad.

The writer of Ecclesiastes observed two millennia ago that everything on Earth is transitory. “All is vanity and striving after wind,” he declared.

Sometimes in grief and sometimes in hope, I’ve expressed the same thought in these words: nothing lasts. The good things don’t last, but then, neither do the bad things.

Everything in our lives changes. This past weekend, I was reminded twice that nothing you try to hold onto remains forever. Then I realized something bad had gone away, too.

August 6 marked my mom’s birthday. She was born in 1933, and if she’d lived she would have been 88 last Friday. She’s been gone—this seems impossible—18 years.

But sometimes I hear her words come out of my mouth when I’m talking to my grandkids, and the recognition both warms me and grieves me afresh. Or I’ll see something funny and think, “I need to call Mom and tell her about this!” Then I remember that would be a cosmically long-distance call.

I’m not one to mythologize my kin. They’ve been the usual lot of virtues mixed generously with shortcomings, as are most folks.

My mom’s a different matter. She was perhaps the only person who never did me anything but kindness. When she died, I wrote that I couldn’t recall ever having been angry at her in all the years we shared. I still can’t.

She was a merciful, generous soul with a sharp sense of humor. This past weekend I kept thinking how much I’d love to have her back. But that’s never going to happen.

And this Sunday my son and his family left our church. John and I have worshiped together his whole 38 years.

He joined the worship team when he was nine or 10 years old. He’s been a mainstay there ever since. A few years back, we ordained him as the assistant pastor.

It comforted me to look across the sanctuary on Sundays and see John sitting there alongside my daughter-in-law Cassie and the five little stair-step Prathers.

I tried—no, really, I did—never to pressure him, but in the back of my mind I’d harbored this pipe dream in which when I retired he might take over as pastor, just as I followed my dad. Maybe one of the grandkids would eventually take the reins from him.

But several years ago, John and Cassie landed excellent jobs that required them to move an hour away from Mount Sterling. They thrived in their new work. The kids loved their new schools. It all struck me as a God thing.

I also knew then it was only a matter of time before they left our church, too. Driving an hour each way for Sunday services, not to mention trying to get to Vacation Bible Schools or potlucks, while corralling five children, two busy careers and four dogs—that couldn’t last.

They stuck it out longer than I might have in their situation, but this past Sunday they told the congregation what they’d told me privately: it’s time. We love Dad, we love the church, but it’s time to move on.

I understood. Yet with them went a chunk of my heart. Another wonderful part of my life became part of my past.

That’s what people and pipe dreams do. They go away. It’s built into the fabric of the universe.

The same day, my wife Liz and I drove to Lexington to eat supper. On the way home, we stopped at a coffee shop I like.

I went inside, gave my order to a barista I hadn’t seen there before, a skinny guy in his 20s who wore a man bun. After I’d finished ordering and paid, he turned to a coworker and smirked.

“He wonts crea-uhm in that caw-fee,” he said, unmistakably mocking the rural accent I still carry.

I felt the jolt any redneck who’s ever been made fun of knows. The second barista glanced my way nervously and started trying to make small talk with me.

There was a time when we would have had an ugly scene. Preacher or not, I would’ve showed myself, as we rubes used to say.

But you know what? I ignored the remark. I dropped a buck in the tip jar. I went to the far end of the counter to wait on my americano, chatted with the nicer barista.

I was surprised by my own restraint. And relieved.

I realized I, too, had somehow changed over time. Be it the result of spiritual growth or waning testosterone, I seemed to have shed, at least for that moment, an ugly part of myself I’d never liked and occasionally feared.

That’s the thing with life. Everything shifts. Everything fades. Even you.

Everything you love. Everything you loathe. Sooner or later, it’s bound to go.

Sometimes that’s great news. Sometimes it pierces your soul.

Paul Prather is pastor of Bethesda Church near Mount Sterling. You can email him at pratpd@yahoo.com.