When all this is over. I keep telling myself it WILL be over sometime in the future, but it seems unreal. It doesn’t SEEM like it will ever be over.
Andrew is having the time of his life—pajamas all day, tv, blocks, and Mom and Dad. Every day he climbs up in my lap and says “Can I have a little story about when I was born?” So I tell him about how Pop Pop and Dan were going to another country the day he was born, and Pop Pop put his hand on my stomach and said “Lord, please bless this boy.”
Someday this whole season of our lives will be a story. Will Andrew remember this? I hope it’s a good memory, because I want it to be a memory as soon as possible.
I want this to be over. I want to take my son to the store for treats; I want to take him to church. I want to go out and sit in a crowded restaurant.
I want to go to work and high-five my kids, and get coffee from the same Keurig as everyone else. I want to see the hallways fill with students’ arrivals in the morning, all rain boots and jackets and p.e. bags and swinging lunch boxes. I want to walk them across the street, all of us in the fresh air, and see them running and chasing each other at recess. I want them to worry about kid things, like the splinter on their thumb and whether Mom will bring their homework to school.
But the Lord saw fit to send us home, then keep us home. And I’m sad. Not quick sad, long sad. The kind of sadness that settles in your heart and hands you your coat every morning on your way out the door. A heavy sadness that hurts…missing someone or something, missing a feeling of hope. A sadness that sees no end in sight.
I want to be good at having hope. Because the grownups need to be calm and collected right now, and that takes more than just optimism—it takes a grownup faith and hope, waiting for God’s deliverance and daily looking for His mercies.
I was out on a walk with Thom and Drew, and the smell of dirt and damp was a nice surprise after a couple days of screens and inside air. I reflected on what we’d be doing today if the year had progressed normally. And I watched the birds. That was God’s mercy—those few minutes outside.
The last time I felt sad—not for a day, but for weeks—I used to watch the birds out the window at work. I read books about different species; I gave them names and wished I could understand them. Because they can fly away, and they can enjoy the world—our Heavenly Father feeds them, after all. They don’t worry. I wonder how that feels? If this is life for now, I need to get good at that.
My kids used to stop everything when there was a bird on the windowsill. Maybe now when I’m teaching them online, they can do that more freely—just pause the video of Mrs. Hunter and watch the birds.
Gosh, this is rambling. My online lessons will be better, I promise.
God bless, teachers. And thanks, team.
the heartfelt awkward 