I used to spend a lot of time writing, thinking, pondering, reflecting. Self-analysis was key to feeling whole and alive, and it has always been through writing. I could write myself down off of a cliff, out of the darkness, into the glorious light.
God would show up and remind me that what I am doing matters, that every moment is sacred.
I write all this to say, that is still who I am, nothing is lost, nothing has been taken from me. My day looks a little different than it did a decade ago, but it’s for the better. I am surrounded by beautiful little people who take up my time and energy and heart and soul, but I’d give up everything again and again just to see them find joy and beauty in this world.
But I dont have to teach them that. They teach me how each moment is scared, if only stop for a moment and open my eyes and ears, be present and stop hurrying, stop comparing, drop all expectations and just live.
My mom reminded of that the other day. She surprised me by reading my own poem to me over the phone right before I hung up. A poem I wrote years ago about what’s important, and how it’s not the grandeous things we all tend to think are superior.
I have this line from a Wendell Berry poem inscribed in my heart, and I hope one day I’ll get it tattooed on my skin as well,
“It soon became clear, I was not so much preparing for an important experience as I was having one.”
I think about today, across this great and broken country, all the people frantically preparing for a feast. The stirring and mashing and boiling and basteing and rolling. The mess of the flour, the grease and the all the butter, the mess of families and all our differences and flaws, all for one moment, one meal.
We rarely live in the moment. We see the majority of life as preparation. At least I do. I am always getting ready for the “next big thing.”
The anticipation is half the high. It’s why Christmas morning is worshipped, why we live in a society where Youtubers make millions of dollars from letting people watch them open boxes.
We forget our ancestors wandered the wilderness, in search of a home, relaying on God and perfect strangers to sustain them. Manna.
We forget our brothers and sisters around the globe just praying for enough water, enough bread or rice to feed their children for one. More. Day.
Living in the moment isn’t simply a trendy saying to add to our other decor, it’s really the only way to truly live.
Because we aren’t promised tomorrow. We have to fully live now, even in what feels like a season of preperation, of waiting, of wandering.
I came here to write a typical “things I am thankful for” post, but maybe thankfullness can only happen when we fix our eyes on today.
Not on the mistakes or the “good ole days” of the past.
Not on the worries or the dreams of the future.
This moment. Here, now. This is important. This matters.
I love how kids have no concept of time. 15 minutes or 2 years all looks the same. Isn’t that just like God? There is no sense of waiting, no sense of a season of wandering in the wilderness for him, He is right here, right now.
And maybe that’s why we feel like we have to walk through those times. When our kids are young and the day feels endless. When the preparation feels unimportant and the menial tasks of life seem to suck our souls dry.
We need to know that God is in the middle of that, too.
That there is life in the preparation.
As we get our hands dirty. As we prepare feasts and wrap presents. As we stop and slowly communicate, slowly speak and write words of life, slowly discipline in love.
As we make decisions every day hoping that one day our children will be better adults than we are.
We began to see, began to feel, begin to know, this moment matters.
As Jesus gently reminds us, we remind each other too.
And thankfulness bubbles up from the inside out, overflowing on dry desert ground.
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