I don’t spend a lot of time in front of the mirror. Usually a quick glance to comb my hair and brush my teeth before I dash out the door will do.
But today I actually looked and noticed evidence of growing older: gray hair.
Not that I hadn’t had any before, but this time it struck me how the gray clashed with how much of a child I still feel like I am.
Recently the sun shone gently on the slopes of the river bank as my four children ran alongside it, shouting and laughing at their stick boats they’d sent downriver.
“Here comes mine!” they shouted excitedly as their sticks bobbed over the ripples in the water.
“Mom, what is my talent?” My son’s eyes were wide, searching, and sincere, accompanying a question that came out of the blue.
He listed his siblings’ talents that included creativity and musical ability, friends’ talents that included a knack for sports.
My husband is truly the most remarkable person I know.
He is funny and kind, handsome and intelligent, wise and humble, patient and hardworking. Anyone who knows him would agree.
We were high school sweethearts, so we have known each other longer than we haven’t, and we have been blessed in so many different ways since we met 27 years ago.
My five-year-old son is a budding pianist.
Day after day he sits at the piano and plunks away at the keys, often producing beautiful songs from his lessons as well as composing his own.
But sometimes, he doesn’t. Like I said, he’s five.
My five-year-old son is a budding pianist.
Day after day he sits at the piano and plunks away at the keys, often producing beautiful songs from his lessons as well as composing his own.
But sometimes, he doesn’t. Like I said, he’s five.
“I don’t like waiting.”
The whining voice I heard came from my young daughter, complaining about having to wait for her next birthday.
“It’s too far away,” she said. “I’ll be old and wrinkly by then.”
I laughed out loud, but truly, that plaintive voice is one that echoes inside each of us, whether we are children or adults, teenagers or grandparents.
I’d like to say that every day in our house is peaceful, that no one ever fights, that we ride out problems prayerfully and lovingly.
But it would be a lie.
Yesterday was particularly challenging, with tired children shirking household duties and worn-out parents losing patience. Throughout the rainy day we had to help solve quarrels, enforce obedience, redirect whining. In the face of all our little problems, we got stuck in the muck of anger and impatience.
My knuckles turned white as I gripped the steering wheel on the way to Urgent Care.
In the rearview mirror, I glanced constantly at my daughter, who rested her head gingerly on a pillow in the backseat.
For days, she’d complained that her head hurt off and on, but this day when I picked her up from school, her face was ashen and her eyes held a fevered look, though there was no fever.
I could tell there was something wrong, and I feared the worst.
In awe, my five-year-old son peered over the pew during the Consecration, the most holy part of the Mass during which the host and the wine become the Body and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ.
Normally my youngest can be a bit rambunctious during Mass, but we try to pull him aside and point out the miracle before us at each Consecration.
“The priest, in persona Christi, is asking the Holy Spirit to change the bread and wine into the Body and Blood of Jesus right now,” I whispered into my son’s ear. “Look! He’s holding up Jesus!”
