matching blonde friends
Saturday afternoon. The sun is shining, broad and generous, heating the world to a warm 85*, but there’s a breeze as I sit under the shade of an umbrella. The sprinkler the boys set up — perhaps an untimely afterthought on my part, but a last ditch effort to not toast my entire garden — occasionally hits the umbrella. How is it that the sound of water, any water, is so calming and refreshing? Except for the steady drip of a faucet left ajar. That is not refreshing.
Swim lessons, Shakespeare this past week, and then 6 days of Musical Theater Camp for four oldest — suddenly we’re in the countdown stages of summer. I want to wring out all the summer-living I can, quickly come up with a plan for more work and more fun, but today is hemmed in by feverish girls and I am reminded that life isn’t about wringing the most we can out of each moment, but about receiving those moments with thanks and offering them back as bond-servants. And so summer-living right now looks like watching a sweet 14 month old little girl in a flowered cotton dress and bare feet climb up and slide down her Little Tikes slide over and over, a baby monitor nearby to hear if one of those feverish girls should wake from her nap, boys who cheerfully helped me all morning with laundry and cleaning and baby-tending enjoying a bit of video game time. Do I sound like a broken record? Perhaps I am slow to learn this lesson, but I find it freshly impressed each day: my life is not my own, and grasping for it would be such short-sighted foolishness. There is a love song I’m living out. My part is the echo to a melody sung long ago, when my life was ransomed, rescued, redeemed.
Fevers tended once again. Fresh water, more snuggles, pillows fluffed and a movie playing for everyone to enjoy together. Twelve year old man child next to baby, and I notice their matching eyes. Beatrice smiles, dimples deep. Each face sweet, this moment catching them on their way to adulthood.
Trees wave their boughs as wind blows through, and I watch from the window. Blow over me, Spirit. May my life bend a move, dance and bow, a visible outworking of the invisible.