In the Moment

It's just about lunch time. The four loaves of whole wheat bread I made fill the air with their warm, hearty goodness. My seven-year-old wants a piece now, but concedes to wait until the bread isn't too hot. My five-year-old passes the minutes until lunch by looking at the bread, her eyes just clearing the top of the counter. She exclaims her awe over the beauty of the deliciousness.

My eleven-year-old is sneezing on the couch, worrying that his allergic, red eyes make him look silly. He wears sunglasses to abate the embarrassment and plucks out "Pirates of the Caribbean" on his guitar. My baby is dancing to his music, stealing his sunglasses, and stomping to the beat that she feels deep in her soul.

She toddles in to me, tripping over the big, pink sneakers she's been wearing all morning. She has her own shoes, but her sister's are infinitely more desirable. Her tummy is full, since she just snacked on leftover waffles and shared them with her beloved doggie. She whimpers for me to hold her, and when she refuses a drink, I can tell it's time for her nap.

I lie down with her and sing her lullabies. Today we are only interrupted three times. My five-year-old is tattling on my three-year-old, who has put sparkly smiley stickers all over the back of the piano. She agrees to help in the removal process, and to whisper and tiptoe if she needs to come back in. Her hair is wild and gorgeous, a fitting top to her carefree, fun-loving soul.

My seven-year-old wants to make homemade juice pops. This is his biggest dream. I don't have molds for that. I have to get creative and solve this problem. I'm grateful his wish is one that I can make come true. Someday I won't have the answer. But for today, I am enough. And that feels good.

My husband calls. He needs to hear my voice. That makes me tear up. His voice encourages, soothes, grunts understanding, expresses love. Clinic is over in just one hour. I can't wait to be held in the arms that belong to his voice.

While I type, I beg my three-year-old to brush my hair. She tugs out the hair band, and then goes to get her purple comb. While she combs, her narration is continuous. Her voice is sweetly scratchy, and I listen to her thoughts. She starts with the things that matter most, and then moves to the extras.

"Mom, Jesus died on the cross. But now He's resurrected. I have my purple comb. You have a lot of hair." Her comb gets stuck in the gnarly mass; she leaves it and runs outside to play in the sunshine.

Is this one of the reasons we should be more like children? They know the fundamentals and place them first, filling in the gaps with the things they love the best, moving along at a pace that is great for them--regardless of anyone else in their world.

How do I adequately express my love for my family? Do they know how much I love them? Have I told them enough today? They fill my heart with what matters most.

I have to record these seemingly insignificant, precious moments that fill my life. They will expire too soon, like that quart of spinach artichoke dip in my refrigerator that I keep forgetting about.

God is so very, very good to me.