Sunday Sentiment

I am blessed beyond measure with a man who is still taking care of his children. They don’t need much tending, but he is the first person they call when anything good or bad or funny or sad happens. If they have a question or learn some new bit of information, his phone rings or his text pings. Always Dad, not Mama. And I am good with that. I don’t know who I might have been had my own father been similar.

We had a good visit with the children yesterday. We also had time with the tiny girls, aka wild ones. They play together and fight over toys and love each other. One is fair and blonde haired, the other dark and brown haired. Both with brown eyes. Stubborn like him and his children.

What will life bring for them? Will I see them as grown women? Will they still want me to paint their nails and pile up in the bed to watch a movie and go to sleep snuggled next to me?

I’m sure he will teach them how to drive the buggy and the tractor. They will learn all about the cows they both love. I hope their interest will continue as they grow. It will mean so much to him.

He is like me about the children and grands. We don’t agree with the saying about skipping the kids to have the grandchildren. We adore our own two so much and always had great fun raising them. He loves being a father and that makes being a Paw Paw even sweeter.

My mood is a bit bittersweet this morning, though. I still miss my parents and his. They did not get to live out their full life span. How different life might have been. How different this day might have been. Life doesn’t go on happily ever after for anyone. We just have to savor each hour as it comes and not waste the next wishing for the last.

Happy Father’s Day to my Rock. And to my son. And to my son-in-law. And thank you, Father, for upholding me through this sometimes bittersweet journey. Help me, Lord Jesus, to savor the now.

California

I know it is expected of me to write about the arrival of the California Dream.  I don’t think I can do that here.  I will break down in tears like I did the day she arrived.  She was taking her sweet time and it pushed me over the edge to a spell in the hospital chapel crying and praying.  Except now the tears would be bittersweet.  Not knowing when I will touch her again is something I refuse to think about.

Our son’s grandmothers had the same dilemma.  Our son was four weeks old when we left for California.  And we definitely didn’t know when we would see each other again.  Contact was a 15 minute long-distance phone call on Sunday afternoon and “snail mail”.  I still have the piles of letters my mother and I exchanged.

Things are different for our situation now.  Nevertheless, the need to catch a plane to get to her causes my heart to ache.

I am still fatigued from the trip. The all-day travel to then from California. The comfortable yet strange bed.  The time difference.  The anticipation. The anxiety. The excitement. The anguish.

I take photos of the foothills behind her house. In between my turn to hold her, I would go out and look at the hills again. The ever changing light makes them look different constantly.  They are like my lake with their continual cycle of lights and shadows playing across them.  I will try to go back to the lake tomorrow.  Time to start walking again. And I need to tell the ghosts who linger there in my memory about the little one I am loving for them and for me.

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