Sunday, January 10, 2016

these days

These are the days of getting oriented, reworking the systems, and trying to find our new rhythm; of learning new grocery stores and libraries, finding new doctors, and feeding everyone out of an unfamiliar kitchen. 

These are the days of reading Narnia books, devotions, or novels; of breathing in words instead of pouring them out.

These are the days of lining the littlest boys up for a lecture, the one about how you shouldn't tease big brother about girls, and little boys listen with wide eyes and faces-- trying to be serious -- but then big sister starts playing the piano --that same dance-y song we've heard a hundred times this week-- and little boys’ little hips can’t help but shake and the serious faces start to crack even though the lecture is not done.

These are the days of quiet time on weekend afternoons, little ones napping and older ones reading, when I sit with creative thoughts and my coffee cup is filled on demand by my oldest son, as long as I let him have cookies too. (Yes, you can all have one.)

These are the days of sending all six off to school in the morning, of impending high school years, of marveling how short is our time together, and letting the littlest one fall asleep on me in church even though he's getting too big for that because, hey, this could be the very last time.

These are the days of smiling at strangers, awkward conversations, and new friendships that feel magically familiar, of big ideas, and feeling small, and praying and waiting, and learning how hard that is.

These are the days of Michigan Cherry Coffee, and of new sleds in the basement, perfect and clean, waiting with the children for a real Michigan winter.

These are the days of giving out check marks, running laps, working on memory verses, and monitoring minutes-of-kindle-usage.

These are the days of Elephant and Piggie, and Clifford, and trying to be patient while they sound out the words; of library trips and missing books and imaginations on fire, and I find myself hoping we never outgrow dragons or Narnia or books by the fire. 

These are the days of bringing home stories about "my fireflies" (4yr old preschoolers) for my children, and bringing stories about my children to preschool, and keeping my eyes open to the delightful joys of children, even in and under the work that they are.

These are the days of hearing that song or smelling that smell and feeling the wave of homesickness; of voices on the phone that make me close my eyes and picture the old places, of allowing myself short mental visits, like a guilty pleasure.

These are the days of stability in change, of leaning on the Rock that is our God and finding His love for us still solid; His provision for us unfailing.

These are the days of writing quickly, to keep a snapshot before today disappears like pacifiers have disappeared from our lives.

These are the days
of hymns from the piano
and screams from the trampoline
and squawks from the bird
and text alerts and microwave dings
and arguments and belly laughs
coming together in a one-time-only performance:
today's symphony. 

This gift.

Tell me, what do your days look like?


  1. I still think you write so beautifully.

  2. Still appreciate when you get a chance to write. I relate to so much.


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