I'm stripping down in preparation for the annual, "I'm a mom, and the kids have all gone to school, so I'm dancing naked because I must" ritual. And I'm not gonna lie to you, folks~it's kind of gross. Thus the warning. Take heed.
I'm wearing a spring bonnet and have my cinnamon/vanilla candle glowing as a symbolic gesture. It's kind of like burning incense in the temple~or burning people at the stake~or burning ticks out of bums...symbolic like that. It's my little way of ridding the home of creatures like summertime farts and hairy legs thrown across chairs whilst tipping back a cup full of blended (to a fine powder) saltine cracker shards (none of which fall to the floor unattended.) Not that I don't find those things as appealing as fruit flies swarming my kitchen like flies do turd...a post for another day...but let's just say they've worn out their welcome.
Now here's something funny~just as I'm finishing this less than tender post, I get a call from Bitty Boo. She's just waved her oldest two off for their first day of real school, and she and her littlest walked home together, hand in hand and heart to heart, as they wept and consoled each other with a plan to go to the school in an hour, just to "check on them."
And suddenly, I remember those days. When they wore outfits instead of T-shirts. When their new shoes made them run faster. When a head full of curlers bowed over folded arms for night time prayers.
Then that one day, when I walked them to the playground fence, and I stopped while they continued on without me. I made a simple request of the woman I was back then~ "Take a picture in your heart right now, Lisa. This is not coming back. Watch them. Watch them. Don't walk away until they're out of your sight." And though I'm often known to be less than obedient, this time I listened.
Even now, as I type these words, I'm looking at this heart picture, and I see all of my children disappearing into the past. I watch, and I watch, until eventually, they're all gone from my view. One so far away, I can't even see him on the American Continent.
But I take comfort that when my mortal eyes stop seeing, the heavenly eyes take over. Angels climb onto the bus. They take playground duty. Some board the plane to Brazil. And hand in hand and heart to heart with our Heavenly Father and heavenly family, the village continues to raise the child.
But oh, how grateful I am for those heart pictures. I shall tight fist them for eternity.