Today is tomorrow’s yesterday

How many days have I wished away? How many hours have I simply endured? How many seasons have I pressed past, rather than embraced?

When will this baby sleep through the night?
Will he ever learn to read?
Why does it have to be so darn hot/cold/rainy/dry?
When we get a new car…
If I had that curriculum, then we’d …

And on and on, forgetting one thing:

Today? It’s tomorrow’s yesterday. It’s only the present for 24 short hours. And no, I’m not promised the chance to wake up again.
Today is tomorrow's yesterday

It’s so easy, in this in-between space, to forget the now. It’s so easy to disregard what happens here, in this house, in this place, as we hope towards our future. It’s easy to cross off the days until we dismantle our lives here and reassemble them there. But to do so is to deny one very important thing: these days, even in the waiting, are a gift. And we will not get them back once they have become yesterdays.

Like the baby who will, finally, spend all night in his own bed. It will come.
Like the child who leaves behind primers and takes a novel in hand. It will come.
Like the day cool of winter and the heat of summer. It will come.

Until then, I need to thank God for the moment I have, and not try to grab hold of fruit not yet ripened by God’s will.