Growth
The snow didn't kill the yellow. Not a flake to be found, as the weather persons remind us once again that the wisdom of the world is foolishness to God.
Even the frigid days following our non-blizzard couldn't touch the yellow either, and today they stand tall and bold against a cloudless baby blue sky, continuing their jolly, graceful dance atop a just-so-chilly spring breeze.
The electric green grass that will soon need mowing, weedy and patchy and soft as silk to bare feet.
The abundance of fallen limbs that should make good fodder for our fire pit if we ever manage to lug it out of the basement again.
The beautifully brown, lumpy garden biding its time. Hopefully it realizes how much we need a good take this year, after a freezer mishap did in our waning stash of corn from two summers ago.
There is work to be worked, but oh there is play to be played.
In the newly daylit evenings, I rock on the porch and walk miles and miles and referee driveway basketball games and watch my two little opposites attract again. Under the open sky they come together as friends, and the wrath of winter's imprisonment slowly fades away.
They are so big now. Maybe nature around me blooming and growing is making me stop and notice the odd, sad magic of passing time. Magic is real, you know. It has to be. There is no other explanation for the disappearance of my babies and their replacement by these huge creatures I find myself living amongst.
Trey, the boy who inherited my sometimes-dreadful personality and hazel eyes and nothing else now comes up to my hazel eyes on flat feet. Inches, and he will overtake me.
We are struggling together. Growing pains hurt hard. In moments of God-gifted clarity, I understand how confused he is between kid and adult, and we can have our long chats about choices and attitude and buddy your parents are just as new at this as you are, so can we please just learn together?
Those moments of non-clarity? They are why I don't blog more. He has gotten to me more than either of us realize.
Aden, the consistently unpredictable one, now a whopping one clothing size below his brother. Doing well at school, loving his Legos, engaging us in very intelligent conversations, pouting like a boss, and refusing healthy food as if it may actually kill him.
He plans and imagines big and I have to cling tight to this, childlike dreams and slightly chubby cheeks and snuggles and the sure as sunrise, "Will you play with me?" Because it will end.
Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, along with the power of the Lord, of course, is plowing through my blues and helping me to focus more on gifts and grace and gratitude by simply slowing down.
That's not my thing, you know. Slow. I've been in overdrive so long, poor slow rusted shut and I've had to very intentionally wipe it off and coax it out of hiding.
It's good. One more on my list of new things for the year. And yet another blessing from the Lord.
Even the frigid days following our non-blizzard couldn't touch the yellow either, and today they stand tall and bold against a cloudless baby blue sky, continuing their jolly, graceful dance atop a just-so-chilly spring breeze.
The electric green grass that will soon need mowing, weedy and patchy and soft as silk to bare feet.
The abundance of fallen limbs that should make good fodder for our fire pit if we ever manage to lug it out of the basement again.
The beautifully brown, lumpy garden biding its time. Hopefully it realizes how much we need a good take this year, after a freezer mishap did in our waning stash of corn from two summers ago.
There is work to be worked, but oh there is play to be played.
In the newly daylit evenings, I rock on the porch and walk miles and miles and referee driveway basketball games and watch my two little opposites attract again. Under the open sky they come together as friends, and the wrath of winter's imprisonment slowly fades away.
They are so big now. Maybe nature around me blooming and growing is making me stop and notice the odd, sad magic of passing time. Magic is real, you know. It has to be. There is no other explanation for the disappearance of my babies and their replacement by these huge creatures I find myself living amongst.
Trey, the boy who inherited my sometimes-dreadful personality and hazel eyes and nothing else now comes up to my hazel eyes on flat feet. Inches, and he will overtake me.
We are struggling together. Growing pains hurt hard. In moments of God-gifted clarity, I understand how confused he is between kid and adult, and we can have our long chats about choices and attitude and buddy your parents are just as new at this as you are, so can we please just learn together?
Those moments of non-clarity? They are why I don't blog more. He has gotten to me more than either of us realize.
Aden, the consistently unpredictable one, now a whopping one clothing size below his brother. Doing well at school, loving his Legos, engaging us in very intelligent conversations, pouting like a boss, and refusing healthy food as if it may actually kill him.
He plans and imagines big and I have to cling tight to this, childlike dreams and slightly chubby cheeks and snuggles and the sure as sunrise, "Will you play with me?" Because it will end.
Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts, along with the power of the Lord, of course, is plowing through my blues and helping me to focus more on gifts and grace and gratitude by simply slowing down.
That's not my thing, you know. Slow. I've been in overdrive so long, poor slow rusted shut and I've had to very intentionally wipe it off and coax it out of hiding.
It's good. One more on my list of new things for the year. And yet another blessing from the Lord.
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