“Mom, I think we’d better get the jeans out,” Isaiah says. He smiles at me and points to the window. Rain is running down the pane in rivulets. The day is gray but I can see that that our maple is turning a warm shade of gold.
“You’re right,” I say.
And we go to the attic. Samuel helps me move heavy totes. I find the one with last year’s date, and we haul it to the family room to see what will fit.
Samuel disappears into his room, and Isaiah lifts the lid and roots through the box like it’s Christmas. He finds his favorite pair of Levis from last year. Then he’s off to the bedroom to shed his shorts and pull them on.
But when he appears in the doorway, his grin is gone.
The pants are at least an inch too short. Isaiah’s knobby ankles protrude from the bottom. The thin, worn fabric of the knees is a bit too high.
“Wow, Isaiah,” I say. “Look how you’ve grown!”
He looks at his beloved jeans. He knows they’ll go in the box for a friend. “I’ll miss these jeans,” he says. “But I’m glad I’ve grown!”
A smile goes wide.
My son rushes over and gives me a high five. Then, just as natural, he kisses my cheek, and for an instant, presses into my arms.
Then he’s gone. Back to the bedroom.
And I sit with a tote of clothes too small.
It’s a secret. A secret from my son. But it’s hard to see my last little one grow. I’m grateful. Thankful for a healthy, strong boy. I hold that blessing dear. But sometimes I have a backward heart. It’s easy for me to look back and wish time wouldn’t move so very fast.
Lord, this is hard. Our baby days are gone.
Did I appreciate them–those days that are now memories, pressed in the pages of a mother’s heart? Yes. Did I live them to the fullest? Well, there were days! But yes, I believe I did. Yet still, if I could hear yesterday beckon, would I follow and go back?
Yes.
I believe I would.
To hold a baby in the night. Sweet, secret moments when the world had gone still. To sing a lullaby. To feel tiny fingers curl around mine or to bend to sweep a little one into my arms.
To watch in wonder as a son falls asleep, dark lashes fringing closed crescent eyes. To hear “mama” or get lost in the laughter that rings most free from the small.
Oh, I miss those days.
I listen to the rain hit the window. The clink and clatter of the toys my son has found in the next room. And then I feel the whisper, the words that speak to my soul.
Do you trust Me? With today?
Yes, I trust You, Lord. I trust Him with my children. I trust Him with my family. I trust Him with my life and my heart and my home.
And when I think about it, I discover that maybe… I can trust Him with my tomorrow, too.
I believe that He will be here as things move and change.
And I know, I’m certain, that He will be enough.
Isaiah bursts out of the bedroom. He’s holding an armload of trucks. I put the lid on the tote and decide that it’s alright for the clothes to wait for one more day.
Soon there will be a highway laid through this room. Isaiah will be on his knees, making little-boy sounds. There will be honking. And hollering. He’ll be pushing vehicles at crazy speed. Then he’ll look at me with his green eyes, the green eyes that move straight down this family line, and he’ll ask me to play.
Of course I’ll say yes.
I’ve decided to trust that tomorrow will be okay.
But for today, I don’t want to miss this ride.
Lord, thank you for being with me as time passes and things change. Amen.
