Wednesday, November 5, 2014

An Ordinary Day

       A couple weeks ago: one of the last kayak outings of the season...

Today, my daughter brought me a cutting board, and asked for an "appy" (think "Happy", without the initial "h" sound, or as it might be spoken by one of the chorus members in "My Fair Lady"). Her vocabulary has exploded as of late, and now includes words in addition to "uh oh" "puppy" "da-da" and a rudimentary form of thank you. While those four words are functional in their own right, I must admit I was happy when she remembered how to say "ma ma" after nearly a year hiatus. It's also encouraging when my child sees a nine-foot stuffed brown bear (as are displayed prominently around town in everywhere from the local high school to the customer service section of Walmart), and no longer calls it a puppy. 

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Today, I played capture the flag with a couple dozen elementary students at a running camp with which I am assisting. So many personalities come out when you play this classic game of conquest. You have the kid that bolts out, caution to the wind, only to be captured quickly--his ego only temporarily deflated--and ready to bolt in the same fashion when he inevitably freed. You have the kid that dances back and forth across the line, doing the ten-year-old version of a touch down celebration, retreating quickly and safely to his side the moment he's threatened. You also have the character who shows little to no interest in the game--until she realizes that no one noticed when she ventured into enemy territory, precisely because she looks so incredibly disinterested. In the end, the most amusing moment to me was when the local high school track star--who is humble and unassuming, but also nationally ranked and heavily recruited by colleges nationwide--broke into a full sprint in the midst of making an escape. One of the fifth grade boys, glowing in his good luck of being on the same team as this super star, looked up at him as he crossed the line of safety and proclaimed, "You are really fast."

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Today, I watched the rain wash across the glass while sun caught the drops in flashes of light. I held my daughter up to the window and we watched the small movements of white rabbit on the edge of our yard for a while.

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Today, a friend lost her unborn child a few weeks shy of her anticipated due date. There was no warning, just the reality of a child that was no longer alive--a child that must still be delivered, and a body that will tell the tale of a child that lived for eight short months inside, for months after.

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At the end of the day, when the baby is tucked in and I have a few moments to sit in quiet, I can be overwhelmed with all the moments packed into an ordinary day: simple joy, unimaginable anguish, juvenile amusement, quiet appreciation. I have my plans; sometimes they succeed. I am grateful for the beautiful; I am thankful for grace present in the dark. And  some days I feel I have no choice but to rest in the hope that tomorrow there will be grace for each moment as well. 

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