I’m always amazed by how [relatively] quickly the days lengthen after December 21st. All summer long, I remember winter’s 5:00pm being always dark, always frigid, and always sleepy. But here it is, yet winter, and 5:00 only is hinting of the darkness that will fall. The sky is yet blue, and a pink blush is splashed by the setting sun on the westward faces of pine trees and hills. Slowly, winter relinquishes her grasp. Soon the sap will run, and life will return.
All that to simply say, the electric candles in our windows are on timers, and back in December I set them to turn on at 5pm. Back then, I had to suffer through a half-hour of darkness before their little lights flickered on, but now, I think I should reset them to 6. Maybe even 7!
Jameson is growing up this week. Not just in size — in fact, he may be slowing down a bit, I’m not sure — but in development. This is very fun, and equally as sad. He sits on my lap, happily entertaining himself with whatever he can grab. He slides himself right out of his carseat, which means I need to strap him in, even when he’s just watching me cook. He suddenly knows what he wants, but, of course, lacks the vocabulary to communicate such desires, and so he’s discovering what it means to wriggle and stiffen and fuss. Today, from his place on the floor, he emptied his little tote of toys, all by himself. And right now, he’s laying in his basket, happy to just eat his blanket and wait for me to retrieve him from his nap.
As I thought about how much he’s changing, and what a little person he’s becoming, I felt myself ready to cry. I quickly reminded myself of something I realized shortly after his birth: Jameson was not born to be a baby. He was born to be a man. I must remember that, or else I find myself very frustrated with the progression of things. Truth is, he is called by God, from my womb, with a destiny only a man can fulfill.
So I’ll cradle him and savor these moments, and take these quiet winter afternoons to enjoy his babyness — all the while releasing him in my heart. He’s not mine to keep, just mine to steward. And love.