Sun setting on golden puddle ponds as I drive down the lane. Toward home. Mary is riding her scooter through "Lake Dan", the failed concrete pour for the shop pad. (Not a flattering name for the contractor, I realize.) Long fingered hands wave. Homecoming queen.
Andrew swings dangerously from a rope anchored to the strength of that cotton wood tree. Tongue sticking out. Wild adventures splash paintings on his imagination. Read the whole story on his face. In his wild eyes.
Lucy, the faithful to love, despite her intellectual weaknesses, waits on the front porch. She rises to greet me. Tail sweeping the air, smiling. Happy to see me. Happy to see anyone. Everyone.
In through the door. Home.
Daniel stands at the counter making a smoothie. Making a mess. He is drenched in sweat. Running a new hobby. A new survival tactic. Depression. The long winter. He is built and born to run. Sinewed body covering ground while feet pound. All that is the struggle of being thirteen.
The two oldest sit at the table with their heads bent together over pictures. Her hair light and long. Blond. His, dark and strong. The silent deep. I will deeply miss. This. Them like this.
Snap shots. Trying to hold these memories because time is so very faithful. To itself. And I am forgetful of all that I have been blessed to hold. These dear ones. This dear life. I want to cup their faces in my hands and in my heart.
How will they remember their time here? How do I let go without becoming a golden puddle pond myself? Can I smile? For them? For him?
Time is closing. The book of Joshua is coming to an end here on Lazy Lane. Never on my heart. But his bags figuratively lie packed all over the house, and his heart is waiting. To go. To be released. Daily, I see the strain on him to keep his wings folded in. Down. To "Obey your father and mother.". (Thank you, Joshua.) And yet, soon, very soon now, he will leap from nest of twigs and home and onto the great holding breast of YOU. The great I AM Who holds all things. Holds them up. Holds them together.
Watch the sky from knees. Wait for all the greatness of God to unfurl in his wings. To fill them, like the flag he loves so much. With freedom. With goodness. With love. With hope. As he circles up on wind currents of YOU, Lord, please, fill his eyes with Your wisdom, and give him Your vision. Give him eyes to see what is good. Pure. Lovely. Beautiful. You. Strengthen him to fight for freedom, Lord. For his own. For others. Keep his feet free. So his wings won't be broken.
Help him to remember You. Reach for You. Stay with You. This beloved son, Lord. And as You write the pages of his story, will you be kind? Will you help me to stay in line? With You? And will you always remind him, that, despite our great failures and our late starts, and our un-hearing ears, that he is loved? So dearly loved? By You? By us? Perhaps a fly by, with tipped wings, and him shouting, "That's for you Mama!". Just so I can wave my blessing, and smile and laugh my love to the sky. And just so I can feel the wind of his precious wings, like heaven, on my face.
That the next generation would soar in the strength of Who You are,