A Present Gift

I’m longing again.

And rushing ahead.

The Christmas decorations have been lovingly wrapped, boxed, and shelved in the garage. I’ve dusted the floor boards, moved furniture back to its’ rightful place, and vacuumed every last pine needle from the carpet. (This makes a lovely scent permeate the room, by the way! I feel sorry for those who merely sweep up the tiny green spikes.)

Now is the time when I begin to long for spring.

The ease of children rushing out to play – no more snowsuits, boots, gloves, hats…no more wet, muddy puddles on the floor where they stripped down in the kitchen.
Simply running outside with merely a jacket and tennis shoes, or even short-sleeves and flip flops.

Drying our clothes in the fresh breeze – not hanging over our shower rod in the bathroom, on the backs of dining room chairs, or over the sides of the baby’s crib when we’re desperate.
Just watching the air moving our shirts and sweaters as if by magic, my husband’s long, long jeans waving hello, my baby girl’s sleepers and dresses moving like tiny whimsical dancers on the line. It is a sight of which I am never weary.

The sun. Oh, how I miss the sun in the winter. When it peeks out, just for a moment, I feel a surge of energy, happiness brings a song to my lips.

Beloved, do not rush ahead.

Last night, as I read my book and listened to my husband breathing deeply next to me, I turned and looked at his face. There are new lines around the eyes I love, sparks of silver running through his thick, dark blond hair. The twenty-five year old man that I married is now thirty-four, and a father of three. I remember how much he loved me, wanted me; and smile at how much he does both, still.

One moment, I am nineteen, newlywed, adoring my lover. Next, I am nearly thirty, whipping a quick braid into my hair, no makeup, and content to lay in the crook of his arm while we watch reruns.

I watch my daughter taking her first, tentative steps, her brothers shouting in delight at her progress. I see my boys, their bodies growing stronger, their desires to serve and work hard beginning to grow.

And then I watch them sleep. Breathing in, out. A snore here and there. Micah’s thumb creeping into his mouth when he’s extra sleepy. Eliana’s bottom poking into the air as she snuggles on her tummy.

Where did the years go? It is the age-old question. One moment they were babies, completely dependent on us. Next, they are running and reading and helping, and passing us up in height.

Beloved, do not linger in longing.

Tend to the spilt milk, casting a loving smile at the five-year-old culprit. The rag used to clean the mess will be washed and re-used a thousand times over, the milk forgotten. This is an opportunity.

Plunge your hands into the hot dishwater, slippers on your feet, tea simmering on the stove; during the winter months. The seasons will come and go a dozen times over, the achy chill in your bones and longing for the sun forgotten each spring. These are the moments.

Enjoy the “grown-up” conversations you can hold with the oldest, the triumphs of the middle mastering a new skill in math, the independence of the baby when she walks away from you. Every mastered skill is a reflection on your training, and God’s grace; not an invitation for you to hold on tighter. Catch and release. These are the years.

Beloved, I give you now.

To live in the past and long for the future is to deny myself the gift of the present. This very present gift.

It has been given. And what do we do with it?

Let go of the baby’s hand, step into your slippers, snatch a rag from the counter and come with me.

It’s time to live.