The Road Goes Ever On . . .

And I'm looking down it this week, and it has occurred to me that some of my children are no longer children. Without going into detail, it has begun to leak into my consciousness that for better or for worse, at some point, at least some of them will not live in my house. They won't come into my room and hand me a baby, won't ask me what is for breakfast (to which I say, 'I don't know, what are you fixing?'), won't need me to remind them to do their responsibilities or check their fingernails or bring their shoes in from the van.

And (quoting Steve Martin from Father of the Bride) something inside starts to hurt. I really like them. I like being with them. I love their senses of humor. I like to play with them. The older they get, the less burdensome they are, and the more they help carry my burdens. The older they get, the more pleasant they become, the more joy they bring to my day. The older they get, the more wise they become, and they give me good counsel when I need it. The older they get, the more they know God, and the more they point me to Him.

I am grateful for this world of ridiculous interconnectedness, thanks to Mark Zuckerberg and his friends, thanks to Al Gore, thanks to the Sprint Now Network. I am glad that texting will keep my children feeling close even when they are not.

And I'm glad that there is great joy intermingled with the sadness. In the same way I am pleased and relieved that my newborn son is packing on the pounds and getting rolls and sleeping longer, even though I love that tiny new fresh-hatched baby look, I know he is healthy and strong and that I am doing a good (enough) job as a mother because he is growing. In that way, even though I love the baby tooth smile, and the first grade lost my teeth smile, and the goofy my-first-grownup-teeth-are-too-big-for-my-mouth-so-I-look-like-a-beaver smile, that lovely adult smile is too beautiful for words.

It has dawned on me that my children very possibly might attract the attention of would-be suitors at some point, and that we are going to need to figure out what to do with that. And for the first time in my life, I am praying in earnest for their future mates. I am sure I lifted up a token thought before, but the other night I really hit the knees hard, asking God for purity of mind and body, for a heart after God, for diligence to accompany faith, for favor with future in-laws.

I am not afraid of the road as it goes on. It is good. But I am treasuring my moments. The days when those freckles and dimples and curls and blue and hazel and brown eyes are easily accessible are numbered. I must kiss them more. I must make sure they hear the kindness in my voice, the patience in my tone, the passion in my prayer, the firmness in my instruction. They need to know how precious the Word of God is, and that every request is perfect to talk to God about, and that all of life is in and through and to Him. They each need to know that I love to be with them and hear what they want to say and care what they think.

Because someday, the little ones won't be little at all. And someday, the big ones will be across town, or across the country, or on the other side of the world, and I want them to know and never wonder about the things that really matter.

So I must make my moments count. The road goes ever on and on . . .