A Spring of Joy

It is 8:15, and I have just finished tucking in little ones for the night, and now it is time to tuck myself in, too. Or at least that’s how it feels these days. By the end of the day I am so exhausted that I am dropping as soon as they drop, and often before they drop.

But, oh, the dropping!

I adore the dropping to bed with them, the hearing their heart’s cry as they whisper prayer requests, so I can pray for them, ending their days as I have begun it, in prayer that God would make them loving and wise and bold and strong.

Then I stroke red curls and tell her how very brave she was when she got her shots today, and her face lights up for a moment then darkens as she says, “But Bay-ah (Bear) didn’t cwy when he got his.” (And let me tell, y’all, I have never heard such screaming as I heard today.)

And I pull her close and tell her bravery isn’t about not crying, it’s about doing the hard things even when they’re painful. “Do you understand?” I ask her, and she scrunches up her face and says, “Yes. It means the othah thing doesn’t mean this thing except foy-ah when that thing means something else.”

My face remains stoic as I stare at her, unsure of how to respond. Unsure of what she even said. Then she sighs and says, “Maybe I didn’t weally undah-stand you.” And I smile and explain it to her again and again until she gets it. That she is a brave girl.

Her face shines as she digests just how proud of her I am, and I eskimo kiss and butterfly kiss and double kiss and pull her sheet over Cinderella jammies and whisper my love on my way out the door.

I want to stop there, to stand and soak in her love, to ponder just how deep she is becoming, how she has tasted weakness and felt small because of it, and I must preach to myself rather than belittle my own weakness as I have stepped into so many hard things… so many that continue, and I remind myself that in my weakness I find His strength. I want to stand there and just think.

But then green eyes and dimples pull me from my reverie, and I make my way to bunk beds and books and boys waiting for mommy’s tuckings. We talk about our day and the adventures that await tomorrow, and I plunk myself on Bear’s bed while Ash curls up with his book.

“I am just so tired,” I tell Bear, and he puts his arm around me and says, “Well, you just sleep here all night if you have to.” I can hear the giggle in his voice as I close my eyes, because I know he’s waiting and waiting. Then I pop my eyes open at him and our games begin, the laughter and tickling and pretend sleeping and snoring, and I startle him at one point so badly that he literally jumps up and we crash heads and then laugh so hard we are both crying and snorting, and it just feels so good.

We pause and he curls into me and says, “Oh, Mom. I’m so ready for school to be over so I can be home with you all the time. I just have so much fun with you.” And my heart melts all over again as I hear Ash whisper from above, “Yeah.” My boys. I tuck them both in with more kisses and rumplings of hair, then move out the door and I stand there wanting to soak in their presence, their love, their joy overflowing.

As I meander downstairs, picking up strewn socks and pondering packing lunches tonight or in the morning, I see my Bri outside still working, trying to get everything done before the light fades. I stand at the door and watch him and my heart overflows. He is so diligent to care for us, to provide for us, to do what needs to be done.

Here I sit, feeling the weariness seep into my bones. I often wonder at the end of the day how on earth I’m going to get up and do this all again tomorrow. How? When I am so exhausted from the physical, mental, spiritual and emotional battle that I am constantly fighting.

And I realize that no matter how weary I am, my husband and children bring life to my life.

Isn’t that how gifts are?

They are life-bringers.

These gifts God has given me bring life into mine.

May I never take a single moment for granted.