Slow down. Breathe. Enjoy these little moments.
The reminder pops into my heart like a 15 minute courtesy warning dinging on my Outlook calendar herding me to my next appointment. And I promptly push snooze. Because how am I to slow down when there are lunches to be made, spelling words to learn, meetings to attend, practices to cart children to, performances to watch, groceries to buy, laundry to wash, laundry to fold, laundry to maybe put in drawers, dinners to figure out, kid swapping, story swapping, kiss and run, kiss and ride, find your next place to be, everyone needs something right this second.
I'm not sure that slow down is feasible because life has challenged me to a drag race. And I'm shifting gears as quick as I can.
And then it snows.
The forecast called for a light dusting. Because of the warm roads it wouldn't stick. No need to cancel, just be cautious. Continue on with your over scheduled activities and full calendar of events. We won't be inconvenienced with cancellations or reschedules.
The fluffy flakes fell furiously accumulating on the ground as if to how long will you ignore me?
An inch? Two? Five?
Control. It is not ours.
I have yet to really enjoy the twinkling lights of my Christmas tree. And this season has been so busy that my nightly snuggles have been short lived with a dual focus on the daily business of logistically getting our household to function. But last night, I sat by the fire, thawing out from sledding, catching up with an old friend by the twilight of our twinkling tree as our girls giggled and dressed up and destroyed a playroom - the thunderous cackles of pure childhood joy reminded me that even in the busiest of seasons, we must enjoy the joy that is around us.
The other day my littlest love told me that she didn't love me any more. The guilt I felt of a new job and a new professional season of my own life surged like a title wave - am I not present enough? Am I not loving enough? Am I not giving enough? Am I failing as a mother?
But last night, she wouldn't go to sleep. She cried out for me. For me. For Mommy. She wrapped her arms around me and I breathed her into me - like I did every night she was littler, I rocked her to sleep in my arms, praying that He would protect her always.
I held her for hours. As the snow continued to cover the footprints we forged earlier. The tree twinkling softly. And I could hear, so softly, God whisper: You're welcome.