that magic moment

Imagine you live in a place where snow is a rarity.

Say, South Carolina, for example.

And you somehow missed the news of the potential snow and the mad dash of Southerners to grab up every loaf of bread and gallon of milk as if we might actually be trapped in our homes by the snow.

So there you are. Blissfully unaware of the long lines and the milk rush and you go to bed like you normally do.

Then imagine you wake up, earlier than anyone in your house, and you scuttle around quietly and as you head to the kettle to start the water boiling for your morning cup of tea (with cream) you can almost feel the extra silence and the muffled beauty that snow brings with it.

You look outside.

You gasp a little.

You breathe in gulps of icy air and, for a moment, you know you are a part of some sort of beautiful. Some sort of special. Something a little extraordinary and the only job you have is to watch it. To witness it.

To be alive in the same space.

That feeling?

You know the one I am talking about?

That’s the feeling I had this weekend, for like a minute. (Maybe like 15 minutes or so honestly.) (I’m talking about feelings, not actual snow. I can only dream of that white stuff.)

It’s the sort of moment I can make my head spin by trying to chase it down. Trying to capture it like a firefly in a mason jar.

We talk about parenting ALL day long when kids are small.

But we kind of keep the chatter down when kids get past thirteen. Who is talking about raising teens? Being a parent to college students? Living life with adult kids?

I understand why.

I’ve written about it before, I’m sure.

It’s far more internally complicated than diapers and potty training and bedtime routines.

There’s a weight and a consequence. There’s individual stories and the knowledge – or at least the hope – that what a teen lets fly out of their mouth is not the same thing that young adult or grown up will think later, so you want to offer LOADS of grace and some forgiveness for the entire clan because we are ALL going to be needing it and grace sometimes looks like not sharing those stories. But also. We know that it is IN the sharing of stories that we figure out what we think – and how.

(Side note: I do think we find close and dear friends, therapists and just-removed-from-the-situation confidants to walk through the journey with. We just don’t blog or post or tweet or instagram about it all.)

Anyway. I’m neck deep, over my head, treading water in Teen and Young Adult over here. In curfews and suggestions unheeded and which version of my adolescent will greet me today.

Parenting can be a battle. Not necessarily against your teen, although we all know it can feel that way, but battling FOR your teen.

And the holiday season dumps a lot of stress and expectations on an already stretched schedule and budget. Plus, December is the anniversary of my mother’s passing and I don’t care how many years stack up, I miss her still. And, top that sundae off with the cherry of single parenting and I don’t even know some days how I (or anyone else for that matter) put one foot in front of the other the entire season of Christmas.

Which is exactly why, this Sunday, when I was standing in my kitchen and there was genuinely happy chaos surrounding me and every single one of my kids (except my sweet grown up daughter) was swirling in the same space as me, projects on nearly every flat surface – sewing machine and Calvin and Hobbes drawings and coffees – and one kid brought me home a hot tea from work and music was playing and we were all collectively invited in to respond to a significant text and at that instant I had the momentary clarity to picture myself standing still among the eddy of my life and to LOOK AROUND.

And yes, I almost cried right there. Flooded with gratefulness for the moment. (And it was just a moment before the crew scattered to work and choir practice etc. etc.) Supremely aware of good gifts and fleeting feelings and the strength and pull of a family bond that time will shift but also that exists. That IS.

Just like the surprise snow and the deep breaths and the grace I hope we can all keep showing to one another in each and every season that awaits us.

Oh my word, I love this family and these people and if I could just throw wide my arms around each of their special faces and their dear lives, I would.

Instead, I breathe in gulps of family air and, for a moment, I know I am a part of some sort of beautiful. Some sort of special. Something a little extraordinary and the only job I have is to watch it. To witness it.

To be alive in the same space.