God's Pursuit of Me,  HomeLife,  Keiglets

the flip side.

When I have an afternoon (or a day or a week or a . . . you know)

that I camp out in the Feeling Small Acres here at this home place

I sometimes let my mind wander to all the jobs I could be doing instead.

Teaching high school.  Writing for a newspaper.  Raising goats.

And all the other places I could be instead.

On a mountain in Colorado.  At the beach. Canada. (Eh?)

And,

thankfully,

it is usually at those very precise moments

God gives me

eyes

to see

exactly

where I am sitting.

Most recently,

I was sitting

at our kitchen table.

With a kid eating a peanut butter and nutella sandwich.

(Remember this guy?)

I actually do not know if I can explain this adequately.

But watching Fox eat that sandwich . . .

Watching his siblings, a passel of other little kids, take absolute enjoyment from observing their baby brother . . .

It was, somehow,

staggering.

The big kids were vying for the opportunity to do something, anything, to make Fox laugh.

Their greatest goal was to see that eighteen-month-old toss his head back

and revel in the moment.

And it was

truly

splendiferous.

(It’s a word.  I looked it up.)

It was then

you know – that precise moment –

that I realized.  (Was reminded.)

I would miss this.

No.

Literally.

Not “I will miss this” as in “One day I will be sad these days are gone and look back at them with fondness”.

No.

I mean, “I would really miss this” as in “If I was physically present elsewhere (teacher’s desk, writer’s desk) I would not be present here and I would actually miss this event.”

That’s what I mean.

Someone else would be here.

I would not.

I would miss it.

It would still be happening.

But I wouldn’t be seeing it.

Wouldn’t be living it.

And it won’t be there when I return.

It doesn’t stand still.

It does not remain.

It moves.

It disappears.

In the future

there will still be a class to teach

there will be a newspaper column to write

there will be a business to pursue.

Those things never really leave.

The opportunities may change.

But they still exist.

Being two only lasts one year.

First steps only happen one time.

Holding hands with a three-year-old is momentary.

It runs out.

It fades.

And it cannot be recreated.

Or revisited

when once it has passed.

And I know

and I know

and I know

that this is where I want to be

and what I want to see

and who I want to know

most

and best

and lasting.

This fleeting fleeting joy.

Tangible joy.

Complete and simple.

Spontaneous

and pure

and holy

in its very beauty

and simplicity

and peace.

And it is this type of moment

precisely

that enables me to persevere through those small days.

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