It’s 5:20 on a Tuesday morning. I tossed and turned for a while before recognizing that I wasn’t going to quiet my brain—that’s decided to run a marathon—so I got up. The air outside is still, almost too still. I sit at my desk with my tea and type away as if the world’s on pause.

I think about last week—walking around the high school that both of my grandchildren now attend— and get a bit emotional. Just like I did with my daughters, I try to wrap my head around how the years flew by so quickly. It’s as if I blinked and time disappeared, like a magician’s trick. Some may not understand how I feel because, after all, they’re my grandchildren, not my children. But, raising my daughters was never something I wanted to run through; it was a treasured gift, and I feel the same way about the next generation. Forty-four years have passed in the blink of an eye; the past sixteen years have flown by even faster.

I want to spend my days doing what’s most meaningful, holding on to every precious moment with those whose lives fill mine with joy.

Big, hot tears stream down my face; I feel powerless to stop them. I have a conversation with God that goes like this, “God, help me to stop worrying about things I can’t control. Help me to remain present in each moment, never missing the songs I’m blessed to hear. Remind me to trust that where I am right now is where You want me to be. Help me to believe that, despite feeling as if I’m not enough sometimes, I am doing my best to honor this life I have.”

Sometimes, I can’t get out of my own way.

I’ll go to every event that I’m able to, but I won’t be aware of most of what’s going on. I’ll be watching for Lauren’s and Ethan’s beautiful faces in a crowd of other teenagers, just like I did when Sara and Erin were in grade school, high school, and college. I’ll be waiting until the concert, play, soccer game, presentation, or dance recital are over so that I can find them and give them a big hug. And, like over four decades ago, I’ll try to burn those images into my mind so that I take them with me always.

I sometimes feel stuck between wanting to freeze-frame time and embracing each new moment as the gift of seeing life continues to expand and evolve. I’m doing my best to do both.

Sunrise isn’t until 6:42. The birds are unceremoniously quiet this morning as the first light starts filtering through the trees.
A new beginning.
Morning has broken.
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