Tuesday Morning (5:20 am)

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.
__________________

©peace full home.com®/intentional living, 2013-2021

4 thoughts on “Tuesday Morning (5:20 am)

  1. Writing, for you, is breaking through “the trick.” You wrestle the saboteur who lives inside, your shadow self, to the ground, the saboteur who fails to convince you that your efforts are not enough. Your tears water the fertile ground of your soul and those thoughts you enjoy become your memories. Wrapped in a warm embrace for Now and Later. Be blessed.

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    • Dan,
      Yes! The saboteur is a perfect analogy. There are often moments (sometimes days) of feeling “not enough” despite the deep spiritual knowing that cries, “yes you are!” I love “tears water the fertile ground of your soul.” Beautifully expressed my friend.
      K

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  2. Beautifully written. You’re savoring the moments, but you’re also CREATING the moments also – not only for yourself but for your girls, plus Ethan and Lauren. Without your desire to be involved in all of their lives, they wouldn’t have these memories to recall later. It’s a beautiful cycle. Hugs to you.

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