Every afternoon, we walk. And most of the time, I hear myself telling him Hurry up, we’re gonna be late. We don’t want to keep the girls waiting. And his legs, growing for only a little over four years, quicken for a few steps. But then he sees a stick or a pointy leaf and must stop to touch, to pick up, to handle the wonder.
They’re like magnets, his little hands to nature. And just last week, in a stroke of brilliance, I thought Hmm. Perhaps I should leave 10 minutes earlier. Maybe I should consider scheduling in time for the wonder. So we did. We left early, we walked slow, we stayed silent, we stopped. It was all a part of the plan, and so we were sure not to miss it.
For two years, that’s what Tuesdays Unwrapped was here. We scheduled time to think about the wonder, to consider the gifts, and to unwrap them with our photos and our words. I’ve missed it. And I don’t know what else to say about it. I’m not in a place where I can start it back up, but I haven’t had the heart to take down the page in the navigation about it yet.
Because the kids have been home sick for so many days, I think a lot about what I have to do, but am unable to do as much with all the needs. But sick brings a hidden blessing along — a slowing. Time pours out of bottomless buckets and the clock ticks slow days away, days of jammies and soup and giant blanket forts. And I’m with them, but I’m not always here. I have to fight to stay in the moment. I fight the pull of the list, the email, the laundry, the window-staring. I look at the clock and promise myself For the next 20 minutes, I will sit here without getting up. And I will play cars.
Before I had babies, I never dreamed that play would be such hard work. I imagined endless days of wonder, the kind I felt on Friday nights when I would babysit for two hours and travel back to the days of Disney movies and footed pajamas. And I’d dream pink frilly dreams of my own someday family. I never imagined that I would have to fight to keep the wonder.
But fight, I do. It’s a messy fight, not at all consistent. I cry about that sometimes, about my inability to stay in this day, this moment. But I try not to dwell on my lack, try not to embrace the shame that threatens to overwhelm. Instead, I think about the wonder, about this moment, and about the God who gives good gifts. Thankfulness can chase away a thousand thoughts of shame.
Can you relate with this wonder fight?
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