come look

Mom, come look.

She says it breathlessly, wiping sweat and wild hair from her forehead with her hand.

I stand at the sink, washing my hands with the honeysuckle soap, preparing to chop onions for our supper.

“Come look at what?” I ask, drying my hands on a towel.  I reach in the cabinet for some cups, filling them, watching the water collect.  I love the way light dances on water, even water from the faucet.  My daughter and her friend smell of the outside, of grass crushed underfoot, of running and jumping and laughter, of golden sun warming the skin.  The gift of abandon reminds me that little girls in other places don’t feel safe.  The reality grips me with prayer.

“There’s this tulip,” Zoe says, as I hand her a cup of water, before she gulps.  Her gulping makes me think of thirsty people rejoicing over wells, the clean water we take for granted.  God’s hand rests on my shoulder.  I pray for water, pouring, if necessary, from the rock.  Zoe has to catch her breath before she can finish, so I look to her friend, whose blue eyes sparkle magic.

“It’s bright orange,” her friend continues for her,  “You have.to.see.it.”

Zoe sets down her cup and wraps her fingers through mine.  “Mom, it’s so pretty.  The petals have opened and curled.  You just…you just need to see it.”

Her friend nods, and I reach for my phone, abandoning the package of ground beef on the counter.  Food.  Food for the hungry.  And just outside, God offers me a feast.

It’s the second time the girls have come for me.  The first time, a delicate butterfly with bright yellow wings had flattened herself against the screen on the porch.  That time, Zoe had been so urgent I forgot my camera.  She worried that the butterfly had gotten caught.  We were on a rescue mission.  There had been no time to spare.

I smile, caught up in their freedom, whispering thanks for the wisdom of their perspective.  No flight of imagination, no conversation, no agenda could be worth missing a glimpse of something beautiful.  Sometimes I don’t think I see that it is  the abundance of gifts we’ve been given that allows me to notice at all.

I step outside and the Spring breeze catches me by surprise, blowing my hair away from my ears.  The sun winks through the trees and blossoms float to the ground.  The wind-scattered petals remind me of a Dogwood I saw this morning on my run, the blossoms elegant and sculpted.  As I ran by, my breath quick, I thought, I need to come back just for a picture.  And then immediately, I wondered if I really would once the day took hold of me.  Even when the air is cold, I stand on the porch in the morning and wave Kevin off, praying for his day, and I tell myself, just breathe.  Sometimes those feel like the only breaths I take on purpose.

The grass feels good against my feet as they press into the earth, as the girls and I move together through the gate.

The girls are pointing, excited, there ahead of me.  The bloom takes my breath.  God gave her petals the color of sun setting over water.  She is a gift, and the seeing something I don’t deserve.  For a few moments, I tell myself, just breathe, just see this.  Her life will be brief, but already this simple flower has blessed three.

“It’s gorgeous,” I tell the girls, standing up to gather them under my arms, to touch their sun-warmed hair with my hands.  “Thank you for showing me.”

Children shape the mother as much as the mother shapes the children.  My precious daughter teaches me to breathe.  She stops me in the middle of all my doing and takes me outside to see a flower, to the porch to rescue a butterfly.  She makes me stop folding clothes so that I can watch as she and Adam dance.  She tells me stories and wants to see them caught up in my eyes, my smile.  She comes to me, just as I am sweeping the bathroom floor and says, “Mom, it’s rest time.”

And I wonder where the days went when I thought the work, the meeting their needs, would wear me down to a husk.  Somehow, it seems that the scales begin to balance, that the giving comes too, with their breathing.  And time rushes on, too fast.  They grow taller and more independent.

But in the middle of all their growing, they remind me what to do to slow down, how to make the moments last.  Together, we collect all the manna God offers for the day.  We give thanks and share lists.  Riley announces hers every morning in a sweet, lilting voice, as though it’s a presentation on a guilded platter.  “I have written some thank you’s for TO-day.”  And just as I get caught up in the urgency of work, my Zoe laces her fingers through my own, and says, “Mom, come see.”  

Her name, Zoe, means the fullness of life.

Reality grips me with prayer.  I am always asking how we do this, how we balance the living and cleaning and training and raising and loving with the wisdom of stillness.  How is there ever time for noticing?  That God daily answers my crazy, clinging, desperate prayers through my children makes me laugh, lifting my arms toward the sky.  This too, is the hand of God on my shoulder, each day the invitation new, His beauty and truth and grace prepared for me in advance.  And the seeing, the breathing, the tightening of the lens on things worth our dwelling, that’s a feast.  That’s food for the all living that has left me hungry.

Sometimes He speaks with a child’s voice.

Mom, come look.