It has been on my mind now for 433 days. Just shy of 62 weeks. Some 15 and a half months. Ever since I wrote that little story of counting time.
We fail so often to realize it–that those rough seasons are a part of a bigger picture. A bigger season. A season of age. Of days, weeks, months, years.
They are small and bright green and gangly; long limbs zig-zagging beneath them and holding them up— not even an inch tall.
Scattered around us are plastic bits and pieces. Bright yellow legs with pegs waiting to be pushed into catepillar-like bodies. I sip tea and assemble the creatures.
He comes home and I can hardly muster a “Hello.” He told me once that one of his favorite things is coming home to a warm welcoming– a smile and a hug.
I can hardly look up.
The barista yesterday, as he took my order he commented that it was beginning to feel like fall outside. I didn’t know. I told him that back home it is sweltering hot yet. So very different.
“We goin’ on a date, Mommy?”
I back out of the driveway onto an unfamiliar road, and set my GPS to a park we do not know. I’m praying for a mountain view.
Exactly when I decide to turn the alarm off and sleep in, whatever that means for a mom of three boys four and under, the baby begins to cry. He wants breakfast. And I am the only one who can deliver.
I can’t find him. I hear his cry, still such a new sound to me. He’s weeks old, and I hear him in distress. My heart is now in full panic.
Raising kids stirs something deep in our souls — an innate knowing that our time is finite. Taking my kids outside in creation, I’m discovering how to stretch our time and pack it to the brim with meaning. God’s creativity provides the riches of resources for teaching the next generation who He is and how He loves us. Join our adventure and discover inspiration and resources for refusing rush, creating habits of rest, living intentionally, and making the most of this beautiful life!