Wading

What is it with us moms? We’re so often so focused on finding the great recipes to feed our people, picking the perfect read-aloud, or balancing the best of the play dates and the free museum days and the opening of the splash pad that we forget to stop and abide– just linger — in the very season we are so grateful to be in.

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Settling

It’s been a week and two days, and we’re slowly settling in. Our furniture is finding its place, the drawers are starting to make sense, and the outline of of a routine is beginning to take shape.

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Do it again

A quote I heard this week that spoke deeply to me:

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” –G.K. Chesterton

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Good

It hasn’t been perfect. I’ll say that outright, at the start, lest anyone read my words and think otherwise. These past few days have been hard, and emotions have bubbled just there, under the surface, for all of us.

Babita is not with us and dang it all, she should be. And in turns, that makes me raging mad, bitterly broken, hurt beyond words, or just plain wistful. It all depends on the moment. Because life is moving that fast and my heart and hormones, frankly, cannot keep up.

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Talking about what matters

In these pivotal moments our of our nation’s conversation about race and violence and privilege and assumptions, I want to say the right things to my children. My voice doesn’t matter in the echo chamber of social media, or to those who hold seats of power, or to the average guy trying to discreetly lock his car door at the red light in a part of town that makes him uncomfortable. But to my children? To my children, my opinion matters. It sets the tone for which things are right and which are wrong, what is ok to say and what is out of bounds. It draws clear lines: this is how God sees the world, therefore, this is how we see it, too.

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It’s always something

From 2009 to 2014, I waited.

I waited to get to Nepal, because then, things would settle down for a bit. In Nepal, I said, I’d be able to finally (finally!) rest in that perfect peace of knowing that life was at an even keel. My heart wouldn’t be burdened by a years’-long timeline, or a to-do list that spanned continents and oceans.

Finally, we would be still.

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Not yes

It should have been a yes. It should have been a yes, and right now, I should be finding a way to finance a celebratory dinner at Pizza Hut (her request) for eleven elated family members about to embark together on a new and thrilling adventure.

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