Look Up

I hope you'll pardon me for the overall feeling of this post, but I'm feeling rather introspective tonight.

I've been going through a few things over the past month or two that have been forcing me to truly look at myself, to look at who I am and why I do the things I do and why I think the way I think and why I feel the way I feel. I'm especially trying to figure out why I sometimes feel the need to escape--to stare blankly at a screen or a book until I don't have to think or feel or do anymore for a few minutes, an hour, two hours, while my life moves on around me.

This last Sunday, the son of a couple Steve and I know pretty well was killed in an accident.  Little Abe was two years old, vivacious and full of life, and my heart has been incredibly heavy as I've thought of what his family and friends must be going through right now.  I pore over the dozens of pictures his sweet parents have been posting on Facebook, remembering the funny stories and anecdotes his mom had told me about him, and wonder and cry and think.  I love the fact that she has stories about him written down--that they have dozens of pictures and videos and memories to share and look back at and smile and cry over.

What I have--my life, my children, my friends and family, the beauty that surrounds me on a daily basis--is such a gift.  And I want to fully appreciate it, more than I have been lately.

I want to be present.  To actually take the time to feel my children's arms around my knees, to notice the way my daughter's eyes light up as her 5-year-old brother makes her laugh, to smile at the way my 3-year-old runs with his arms pumping full-speed and his little legs struggling to keep up, to truly breathe in the smell of my 5-year-old when he oh-so-rarely is willing to sit on my lap and be still with me, to laugh and love and FEEL my children.  

I want to do more to know the greatness of the spirits I can sense are housed in these little (although ever-growing) bodies, and I want to have joyful, happy memories to look back on when my children are grown and gone.

And yet, sometimes, when I feel overwhelmed by the mess and the noise and the craziness and the stress that comes when you have to be in charge of such strong spirits in such little bodies, it's hard for me to make the sometimes-colossal effort it takes to stay involved, to stay present, to not shut everything out through a little (or big) screen that immediately makes me feel a little more numb and a little less stressed or angry or sad.

I think it's a natural (though not necessarily good) reaction to want to escape from things that are hard or unpleasant. And let's face it, sometimes, in some moments, being a mother is hard and unpleasant.

Heck--sometimes, in some moments, just being human is hard and unpleasant.

And so we humans (naturally) try to escape, to numb ourselves, to avoid the hard and unpleasant parts and instead spend our time laughing over the witty cartoon so-and-so posted or "liking" the hilarious video so-and-so posted, until we get to the point where we don't know what to do with ourselves when we find ourselves stuck in a quiet room or a quiet car, sitting in a waiting room, caught in a long check-out line, by ourselves, with nothing to distract us from the thoughts in our mind.

I've seen this video passed around on Facebook, and finally actually brought myself to watch it tonight, and it struck me right where I needed it most.

The style isn't my favorite (I'm not much into the guilting style of teaching, to be honest), but the message speaks to me.
I sort-of-kind-of wrote a lullaby when Jack was just a small baby.  In all honesty, it came to me one night (one night of many) when I was up late, attempting to rock him to sleep and attempting to remind myself that this blessed time goes far too quickly.  I somehow had the sense enough to write it down, along with the simple melody that accompanies it, and memorize it for all of my children.

Your handprints and footprints, 

So tiny, they appear 

On every clean surface,

Yet they change from year to year.

You start out small,

Then grow so tall, 

And then one day, far too near,

Those handprints and footprints

Too swiftly disappear.

I want to be better.  I will be better.  I must be better.

Because, as my Heavenly Father seems to be reminding me more and more, these days I've been given are precious and shorter than they may seem.