Category Archives: The Kids

Business Trip

While clutching itineraries and agendas, he pulled along all that it is that makes a week behind him, quietly slipping into darkness before the day’s light.

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The children, earlier in the week, noted the stark whiteness that began trickling over from office to home–a heap of scheduled meetings and travel logs that found their way upon kitchen counters, all which already plotted out his days. Days that would not be spent bustling about the heart of our home.

Leading up to departure, scattered signs and small piles began to accumulate throughout the house, marking where he has been and where he is going. All outwardly displaying that the week ahead will be played with a different rhythm.

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They noticed, with anxious waiting, that this is what a loving father does for his children.

They understood that yes, Dad has to work for one whole week for me to be able to have this home full of warmth.  It takes another 2 days to have a closet of clothes and shelves of books.  And still 3 more days for me not to have to experience real hunger.

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They noticed that he willingly gives up the better part of the day’s hours, even travels across the country,  just so they are able to have the joys and comforts of this life.

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Just hours before his  leaving, disguised as piggy back rides and begging for just one more book, they relayed to him that they are ever so thankful.

As he tucked them into bed on the eve of departure, I noticed, with grateful pause, that just like the Father, he willingly and lovingly sacrifices of himself to provide for all that he has created.

It was on this morn, with a hug and kiss that whispered goodbye, that I knew that he, too, knows that I am ever so thankful.

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Loved, Of Course. But Do They Know They Are Liked?

With arms outstretched, I pull them in.

Close.

As if if they were cleaved tightly enough that they would again become intertwined with me as they were in those early days.

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Nuzzling softly against my chest as I bend to their crowns to kiss and draw in their essence, with expansive vocabulary of affectionate gestures, I am assured that they are aware of the love that fills the rooms and dances through the halls of this home.

It is omnipresent and unfaltering–Yes, they know they are loved.

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But do they know they are liked?

Do they know that even when the days are long and arduous, and words have been sharp, that come mid-afternoon when I, standing at sink with hands in soapy water, catch myself and think, “My goodness, this is the first time I have actually seen her today?”, that it is not the day’s tasks that laid before me that were more esteemed?

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Or when, ashamedly, voices are elevated over untidy drawers and misplaced baubles, and disapproving words exchanged, do they know that it is my own selfish sinfulness that I am exposing?

Or, worse yet, do they feel that my said disapproval equates that they are not good enough, that they are not loved, that they are not liked?

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For I hope that they are aware when we are all gathered at table, with the bountiful blessings that have been bestowed upon us are being heaped upon dishes, that the jovial exchanges of the days doings are what are most treasured.

Just as a doting friend, I hope they know that I know that, yes, your favorite color is rose, not pink, and that two scoops of vanilla ice cream only taste right in that glass dish, and that come evening the door in the hallway must be closed only this much at the bedtime hour.

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Do they know that I know these things not because it is imperative to my responsibility to clothe, shelter and feed, but imperative to my responsibility to know, love and serve?

Do they know that when the days begin to light, I beg of His mercy and for His grace for it is my actions this side of Heaven that I will be most remembered?

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It is my hope, when the day comes, when no longer arms can be outstretched to pull them close, and kisses are not placed atop their crowns, it will not be my faults, but my acceptance of them, their knowledge of that they were liked, as well as loved, that will endure.

If You Give A Boy A Jacket…..

When he wakes up in the morning, he’ll ask you for a glass of chocolate milk.

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While you make him the glass of chocolate milk, he’ll ask for it to be in a sword cup.

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(Sword Cup n.   an empty jelly jar, that tapers slightly at the top, that has been claimed by a young boy for all his own).

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When you give him a sword cup full of chocolate milk, he is going to ask for a breakfast of “bread with something on it”.

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(Bread With Something On Itn.  a piece of bread covered with Nutella and folded in half.)

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When he is done with his sword cup and has finished his “bread with something on it”, and he dresses for the day and decides to wear a jacket, he is going to hide his face from his mother.

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After obliging him all morning, he still refuses to look at the camera, but mother doesn’t care–she loves him just the same.

The Joy of True Friendship

As they pranced about, tramping in and out of skillfully plowed rows, weaving among cornstalks and strewn hay, I couldn’t help but smile.

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Despite her bruised heart from those long days of summer, I have slowly  witnessed her palm learn to firmly grasp, as shaky hands are beginning to subside. She is finding how to hold her compass steady.

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Now, instead of shedding tears and patching up scraped feelings, she is indulging in the sweetness of childhood secrets and shared jokes. She is basking in the comfort of holding a real friend’s hand.

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Following behind, watching as the dust rose as they danced, my mother’s heart knew that although those summer scars are beginning to heal, they will not be the last.

I was, however, comforted in knowing that when those days come, her heart and feelings scraped and bruised once more, I can smile again and remind her of these moments.

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Remind her that, yes remember, you have in fact discovered  the joy of true friendship–you have in fact meet the sweetest souls and truest friends.

A Boy and His Book

Each night, once the lights go out, a certain little someone tends to need a little persuading to stay in bed.

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After night time readings with Mom, story books have lost their luster and the whispers from the living room seem more inviting. When it is father’s turn to parade him down the hall back to bed, he has come to know that a story will follow– one that is spun just for him, one in which he is the hero.

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Last Monday night, my husband, a student at the local university, was asked to create and market a product over the course of 10 minutes as part of a class exercise.

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He returned home with this little booklet.

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With pen scrawled handwriting and crude marker illustrations, my son was delighted to have his book written down for him to hold.

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I was delighted that my son would now always have this token of his childhood.

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Now, not only would he have the sweet night time memories shared between he and his father, he will always be able to hold his father’s love in his hands.

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