There I stood, waving out my living room window at nobody. I wondered what the neighbors would think if they happened to glance out their window at that exact moment.
You see, every weekday morning begins the same way: I rise early, make my coffee and sit down to soak up just a moment of Scripture before the chaos begins. Sometimes I’m alone, with Jesus, sharing my worries from the night before and my hopes for the day to come.
However, I’m often interrupted by the sound of my five-year-old’s little feet slowly descending the stairs. She comes to me, quietly resting in the warmth of my side, before sharing with me her worries from that night, and pouring out her hopes for the day to come.
It ends too soon and then we scramble.
I serve breakfast, check the hot lunch menu (wishing that my kids would eat today’s meal . . . no such luck). I remind them to keep eating, and then I make lunches. I beg them to talk quieter so as to not wake the baby, remind them again to keep chewing, then brushing, dressing, and tying. Every day looks like the same little dance.
It’s over before I know it, but it somehow seems to last forever.
As I bundle them up in their coats before they head off to school with their daddy, that same little five-year-old turns to me, as she does every single day, and says, “Give a kiss to Amelia for me, and don’t forget to wave out the window.” I assure her with an, “I promise.”
So every single morning, I stand in front of our living room window as the garage door closes and they back out of the driveway. I wave to my little family, praying for their safety and thanking God they are mine. I wave until the car is completely out of sight.
Most days, I see those little hands waving back at me as her eyes search the window to find mine. But there are many days I don’t.
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