My children and I live at close range. We are close enough to hear each other chew, know who didn’t wear deodorant, and see if someone combed their hair before the put it back in an elastic.
We scrap over the last piece of bread to toast. Unnecessarily, as there is a 5 gallon bucket of wheat waiting to be made into bread.
We have the same conversations over and over. Responsibility begats privilege. Until I’m blue in the face. Nothing changes.
We have a lot of bad relational habits, born of too much time on our hands. No scramble to find our stuff and get out the door in the a.m. Keeping up with a much smaller sub-set of Joneses.
I’m exhausted from doing too much stuff I don’t want to do and not doing the stuff I need and want to do. Emotionally wrung out and intellectually… I feel dumb.
Friday, I broke down crying. Instantly. Viscerally. As one does.
I wrote. I sang along to crying songs. I discussed. Discreetly.
To the point I wasn’t hearing or reading anything new or corrected.
Last night we did our church’s “Family Night at Christmas”. It’s a Christmas themed talent show.
All my kids were involved.
They were phenomenal.
This morning. I got up and sat, blissfully alone, before anyone got up.
I read more sad news.
And thought about my children. They glowed.
My tendency to look past them is temporarily suspended. They glow.
With goodness. With individual strengths and weaknesses that make them irreplaceable. With beauty. Power.
I may go blind from exposure to pure awesomeness.
Another mother will never have the opportunity to fight about facebo*k with her 15 year-old daughter. Or ever again tell a boy to put on a jacket, and then see it on the ground outside.
God deal with me, be it ever so severely, if I forget to be madly in love with every radiant moment.