A year ago after my first hospitalization for a skin infection in my arm, I wrote this:
John Piper said, “What choices will you make today that will give you the most pleasure a million years from now?”
I ask myself. Is what I am doing today rooted in what I will gain today? Or is it rooted in the things that will last forever?
And what does my today hold?
It’s sitting on the boys’ beds talking, reliving our days and planning tomorrow.
It’s fixing bagels for breakfast together in the kitchen.
The Rain
by William Henry Davies
I hear leaves drinking rain;
I hear rich leaves on top
Giving the poor beneath
Drop after drop;
‘Tis a sweet noise to hear
These green leaves drinking near.
And when the Sun comes out,
After this Rain shall stop,
A wondrous Light will fill
Each dark, round drop;
I hope the Sun shines bright;
‘Twill be a lovely sight.
(photo courtesy www.public-domain-image.com)
Honestly, I always hesitate to write these posts. Part of it is that I’m tired of writing about it, but the other part of it is that I wonder if you’re tired of reading about it. That’s my insecurity speaking. Then I hear the voice of my friend, Monica, who reminds me that I write for me, not for others. That’s part of the healing process. My writing. The catharsis of putting into words all that I am going through, learning, seeing. Reminders of ways He is working in my life, in my pain, in my world… all which are an offering to Him.
“Mommy?” she whispered, trying to climb in our big bed.
I rolled over and pulled her in, snuggling her in between us, breathing in the scent of freshly washed hair. “Mmmmm?”
“I had a scawy dweam.”
I opened my eyes and saw her big brown ones staring at my face, desperate.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
She nodded, pulling her Digger Dog close, “I was at chuhch (church) and I was wearing my pwetty dwess. Then I fell in the duht (dirt) and my dwess got all duhty.”
I finally opened up Asher’s lunchbox to clean it out on Sunday (yes, you read that right… it sat for 2 days with dirty spoons and leftover food), and I found his napkin still there. Then I sat right down in the middle of the floor and wept, because my Brian had written this on Asher’s napkin: “I love you, big guy. Have a good day. Dad.”