Helen’s Lesson: The Power of “Not Yet”

When I was 22, I found myself in a role that felt far beyond my years—a young pastor’s wife. And let me tell you, I did not know how to act the part and I definitely did not dress the part. Pastor’s wives are most often seen donning  Norwegian sweaters, full-length khaki skirts, and clogs! But not this pastor’s wife! I was usually sporting tall boots, above-the-knee jean skirts, and the latest, most stylish blouse.

I didn’t have much experience with small talk, and the thought of Sunday mornings filled me with anxiety. Every week, people from the congregation would approach me, and I often had no idea how to handle the conversations. I felt young and awkward, like a kid trying to sit at the grown-ups' table, unsure of what to say and afraid of saying the wrong thing. I fumbled through conversations hoping no one would notice how out of place I felt.

One day, the other pastor’s wife, older and more experienced, offered me advice that I still remember: “When you’re nervous, just ask them something about themselves.” It sounded simple enough, but in the flurry of Sunday mornings, it was often to insecure to ask that little question.

And then, one Sunday, Helen—the matriarch of the congregation—began walking toward me. Helen was someone everyone respected. She was intelligent, poised, and while tiny in stature had this presence about her that made you pay attention. She was also a woman of few words, but when she spoke, everyone listened. As I saw her approaching, I panicked. What would I say? How could I possibly engage with someone like Helen?

I remembered the advice: ask her something about herself. So, in my nervousness, the only question that popped into my head was, “Helen, are you married?”

She paused for a moment, smiled warmly, and simply said, “Not yet.”

At that moment, I was utterly confused and probably looked flustered. I don’t remember what happened next—I’m sure I looked down at my boots, fumbled my way through the conversation and quickly excused myself to hide in the bathroom. I had no idea what to do with her answer. But that moment, as awkward as it was, marked the beginning of a long and beautiful friendship.

Helen was 60 years my senior, yet we had a deep bond. We shared countless years of coffee dates, conversations about faith, and even traveling together. Despite the difference in our ages, she became one of my closest friends.

Helen was once a missionary in Papua New Guinea and lived a life rich in experiences and stories, though she rarely spoke about them unless prompted. She taught me about the importance of continuous learning, of helping others quietly, and of having faith that ran deep.

But one thing I loved most about Helen was her independent spirit. Even in her 90s, she lived life on her own terms. I remember when she got into a car accident—nothing serious, thank goodness, but enough to make some people at church start talking. They began saying that someone should talk to her about giving up driving. Helen undoubtedly heard all the scuttlebutt, but she wasn’t having it. She went out and bought herself a purple PT Cruiser. It was her way of saying, “I’m still here, and I’m still going to do things my way.” That purple car suited her—a bold and defiant burst of color that matched her spirit perfectly.

The most important lesson she ever taught me came from her very first words to me: “Not yet.”

Helen lived until she was 104 years old, and she never did marry. But her response wasn’t just a witty reply to my question that day—it was her philosophy. “Not yet” was more than an answer about marriage; it was her way of saying that life is full of possibilities, no matter how old you are, no matter where you are in your journey.

Helen never stopped living, never stopped learning, and never stopped believing that new experiences were always around the corner. She showed me that it’s never too late to keep trying, to keep growing, and to keep hoping for what’s to come. That mindset shaped the way she lived her life and the way I’ve come to live mine.

She taught me that age is just a number and that every stage of life brings with it new opportunities. Her quiet strength, her unwavering faith, and her commitment to never stop moving forward, even in the background, became a foundation for how I approach my own life. I think of her often when I’m faced with uncertainty or doubt. I remind myself that it’s never “too late,” and that “not yet” might just be the most hopeful thing you can say.

Helen’s legacy in my life is simple yet profound. She taught me to keep my heart open to whatever comes next, no matter how old I am or how impossible things may seem. Because in her world, everything was always “not yet,” and that left space for endless possibility.