It’s 3:40 on Monday morning. The wind is howling outside and I’m sitting at my computer typing away. I tossed and turned for a while before finally deciding that I wasn’t going to quiet my brain, so I’m up. My mind is filled with so much. Today is the last day of grade school for my granddaughter Lauren, and I’m a bit emotional. I suppose many people wouldn’t understand that because, after all, she’s my grandchild not my child. For me, raising my daughters was never something I wanted to run through. It was something I treasured. Forty years have passed by in the blink of an eye and now this last decade, with little ones again in my life, has flown by even faster. I want to do with my days what’s most important. I want to hold onto every precious moment, with those whose lives fill mine with joy.
Big, hot tears stream down my face and I feel powerless to stop them. I have a conversation with God that goes something like this, “God, help me to stop worrying about things I can’t control. Help me to always remain present in the moment and to never miss the song I’m blessed to hear. Help me to trust that where I am, right now, is exactly where You want me to be. Help me to believe that, in spite of feeling as if I’m not enough sometimes, I am doing my best to honor this life that I have”.
Sometimes I can’t get out of my own way.
I’ll go to Lauren and Ethan’s final school assembly later this morning, and I won’t hear most of what’s going on. I’ll be watching for their little faces in a crowd of children. It’s the same thing I did when Erin and Sara were in grade school (and high school and college). I’ll be waiting until the meeting’s finally over so that I can find them and give them a hug. It will remind me, again, of when my girls were young. I know that, just like I’ve done over the past four decades, I’ll try to burn those images into my mind so that I take them with me always.
I’m stuck between wanting to “freeze frame” time and embracing the gift of seeing life as it continues to expand and evolve.
Yesterday, at church, Joanne talked about life and vulnerability and the masks we sometimes wear. This is the prayer I offered after she shared her message:
God, may the emptiness or fear or longing we sometimes feel—when we think we need to be or have more—be mitigated by what’s really important.
God, may your many gifts—that we sometimes don’t see—transform and renew us. May, the spirit inside us draw us nearer to you, to justice, to truth and to love.
On the path to wholeness, we know that we need to first be real with ourselves and with you, God. For some of us that might be tough. We spend so much of our lives being who we want to be—or think we must be—that we lose sight of our core selves as your children.
Give us the strength, in our community, to invite authenticity; to look beyond the surface and look into the eyes of each other and allow, honor and respect vulnerability.
Authentic, Mask-Free, Real People
God, that’s what you want for us. You love us with all our flaws.
Please help us to do the same.
Sunrise won’t happen until 5:30, but the birds are beginning to serenade the earth with their morning songs. The first light is filtering through the trees. A new beginning. Morning has broken. There’s safety in the light sometimes, isn’t there?
May today be blessed for you,
©2016 Peace Full Home/Intentional Living