Something is amiss. Summer weather filled our holiday season, and we’re still getting amazing sunny days when we should be shivering. The birds are singing like spring. The dead trees are about to sprout spring greens. Nature is confused here in Austin, Texas, this year.

The house has a different sound now.

I noticed it first this morning when I meandered into the kitchen in my bare feet — the floorboards creak louder when there’s one less person moving around upstairs. The coffeemaker’s gurgle echoes off the kitchen walls. Even the dogs’ collars jingle differently, as if the sound waves have more room to travel before finding a surface to absorb them.

The Last Sunday Dinner

A week ago today, we gathered for what would be our last Sunday dinner as a complete family for the foreseeable future. Yesterday, Berkeley, our youngest triplet, drove away with a U-Haul to start his dream job at a space company five hours away. As I said grace over our meal, my voice cracked. The words caught in my throat like breadcrumbs. The reality of our last Sunday dinner, after 23 years of them, was, well, pretty hard to take.

You see, I know how this story goes. I left home at 17 and never moved back. Not because I didn’t love my parents, but because that’s what you do — you launch. You fly. You build your own nest. And now, watching my son’s taillights disappear down our street, I recognize that same fierce independence in him. The same need to forge his own path, filled with joy and possibilities, yet tearing up to say goodbye.

Ambushed by Memories

Memories ambush you at moments like these. His surgery at eight months old — repairing something we discovered by pure chance that could have caused serious problems in adulthood. Teaching him to tie knots for Scouts, shooting BB guns, driving him on his first date, and countless band concerts at school. That first blacksmithing lesson when he was 9, his eyes wide behind safety goggles as the hammer met hot metal. Now he’s making more money than I paid for my first house, having sailed through 11 interviews when most people don’t survive the first.

Here’s what nobody tells you about success: Sometimes the things you’re most proud of are the things that hurt the most.

Flipping the Switch

When I was in my 40s, I was still allergic to the idea of children. I watched my cousin’s baby vomit on him once, and I nearly gagged myself. How could he just … not care? He wiped it off like it was nothing, kept cooing at her, completely unfazed, no drama. I swore that would never be me. I had plans. Big plans. Plans that involved me, myself, and I.

But life has a way of flipping switches you didn’t know existed.

When I met my wife, something fundamental shifted. Suddenly, the thought of creating humans who would call me Dad became not just acceptable but essential. We had them later in life — triplets, if you can believe it. The doctors sat us down, tried to convince us to “reduce” the pregnancy. Better odds, they said. Lower risk of complications. What they really meant was better statistics for their university hospital’s funding reports.

We didn’t even consider it. “We’ll take whatever we’re given, thank you.”

And we did. Three babies. Fifty thousand diapers. Three college tuitions. Fifteen trikes and bikes. Three broken hearts as each one drives away to start their own story. Fortunately for us, one is working and living at home to save money before moving out.

Joy Versus Happiness

The Apostle Paul wrote his letters to the Philippians from prison. Ten years behind bars for preaching what he believed. You’d expect complaints, bitterness, maybe a little “woe is me.” Instead, he writes about joy. Not happiness — that’s conditional, tied to circumstances. Joy is different. Joy exists in the midst of pain, in the center of loss, in the heart of change.

My friend Gary Bertrum taught me this. He’s been coming to my painting retreats for years, filling our evenings with his guitar and his laughter. Two years ago, he went home feeling unwell. What followed was two years of unbearable pain — an incurable disease that stripped him down to a skeleton, hundreds of hospital visits, and treatments that would break most spirits. Yet every time I hear from him, he radiates something I can only call joy. He doesn’t talk about himself, or his pain, or the treatments. He continues to be encouraging and loving, asking about others. He is selfless. He’s teaching me how to live by showing me how to die. And he’s not questioning or blaming God, he is praising Him.

Music in Silence

This is what I’ve learned from empty chairs and quiet houses: Joy isn’t found in keeping things the same. It’s not in the accumulation of stuff or the achievement of milestones. It lives in the terrible, beautiful reality of loving people so much that letting them go feels like tearing off a piece of your soul — and knowing you’d do it again in a heartbeat.

The house may sound different now, but I’m learning to hear music in the silence. Each empty chair is a trophy, proof that we did our job. We raised humans who can fly.

And that sound you hear? That’s not emptiness.

That’s joy.

Eric Rhoads

P.S. If you missed my free online event last Thursday about goal-setting for artists (though the principles apply to anyone), you can still catch the replay [here].

Watercolor Live is coming! We’ve made exciting changes this year that will transform how you see and create watercolor art. Whether you’re a beginner or looking to refine your techniques, this is your chance to learn from masters who will share secrets it took them decades to discover. The energy of creating alongside hundreds of other artists is absolutely electric. [Join us here.]

Valentine’s Day Deadline: The early bird deadline for the Plein Air Convention is February 14 — save $300 if you register before Valentine’s Day. This is where the entire plein air world gathers to paint, learn, and push boundaries together. After last year’s record attendance, spaces are filling fast. [Secure your spot here.]