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 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.

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,
Kay

©2016 Peace Full Home/Intentional Living