“Go on without me!” I cried dramatically, my mud-soaked tennis shoes sliding helplessly along the slippery forest trail. “I’ll catch up!”
My family was on a backpacking trip heading toward a rustic cabin in the Porcupine Mountains in northern Michigan. The six of us each carried a backpack full of equipment we needed to survive the wilderness for a few days.
The other day I ran into an old friend at the grocery store.
She was behind me in the checkout line and as her eyes recognized mine, we both erupted into laughter of surprised reunion, as the memories of our past times together flooded my mind.
We laughed and chatted and updated each other, picking up from where we’d left off seven years ago.
Our Lord loves laughter. I know firsthand because He gave me my husband and my children, who bless me with the gift of laughter every day.
For example, they love to tease me good naturedly about my obsessive-compulsive tendencies regarding germs.
Since my children were babies, I’ve always been fastidious about everyone having clean hands.
So, when my husband was boarding an airplane for a work-related trip, I texted him to ask if he remembered to sanitize his hands after getting settled in his seat.
My children and I went strawberry picking today.
The field was damp and muddy, but the air was cool and delicious between rainstorms.
“Is this one okay to pick?” my youngest son asked, holding up a red strawberry that was white on one side.
I’m a work-aholic.
It runs in my family, but it also just comes with the territory of being a mother.
There are always dishes to do, clothes to clean, mouths to feed, carpets to vacuum. Not to mention children to police, homework to help with, activities to run to.
The list never stops, so neither do I.
And my children notice.
God gave me an unexpected forced retreat last month, a literal message to “slow down.”
I was on my way to an indoor water park, traveling a few cars behind my children’s school bus in order to help chaperone at the park.
It was the day of a spring snow storm, and I hit an icy patch and started sliding off the road.
Every day as a means of spurring family discussion around the supper table, my husband and I ask each of our children to talk about his or her “rose” and “thorn” of the day.
Recently this was a conversation I had with my six-year-old son:
“What was your thorn of the day?”
“My bottom got wet when I went down the slide at recess.”
“Mom, can I get a Minecraft Lego set for my birthday?”
My son’s eyes were wide with hope and anticipation and all seriousness. But, smiling, I had to hide a laugh and shake my head.
His birthday was six months away.
One winter four years ago, I hit bottom. I was a mother of four little ones close in age, and years of exhaustion and isolation were beating me.
With the constant care of my children controlling all of my thoughts and actions, I was becoming a shell, a shadow of my former self, and I needed help.
Just before the New Year, our house looked similar to many other homes.
Christmas lights decorated the tree in our living room. Children were busy with new toys and games. Cookies and other goodies often made their way into little searching hands and mouths.
