She tells a story of a moon. (And yes – I know I talk about the moon a lot, but bear with me in this story).
Beside her, six kids are readying for dinner. Dishes are scattered across the counter and food is ready to be played. Behind her her husband comes over, waving to her. “Come here,” he says. “You need to see this.”
But her eyes are on the dishes and the readied food and the hungry babies. “Now?” She asks
“Can’t it wait until after dinner?” Eyes on the clock.
He’s insistent. And so she follows him, to where he stands, and then his hands are on her shoulders and he steers her to where she can see. The moon. Beautifully high in the sky, casting a glow on the fields below. “I thought you’d want to see it,” he says quietly, and after a nod from him, she picks up her camera and is all legs as she hurries out into the field.
And all I can think about as she writes of this moment is how often we miss the moon.
We fill minutes with things and people so time passes us by. I never want time to pass me by. I never want to fill it so full that I miss what I’m even filling it with.
I pile expectations higher and higher and higher until I am drowning underneath them. And their weight threatens to destroy me. But I keep piling.
And in the process of to do lists and dreams and unwashed dishes and unfinished laundry and a never perfect body … I miss the moon.
I miss the moon.
And I am so afraid I’ve lived 26 years and missed it. I’m so afraid I’ve done big capital L Living I’ve forgotten life is lived in the moments in between. When we see who’s in front of us. When our feet slow even though we’re late but the lilacs wrap their scent around us and stop us in our tracks. When we laugh at the ducks that waddle up to picnic blankets and dance and bellow and wail in the middle of a traffic jam. When we find ourselves in the middle of a mosquito-filled patio, raspberry pie stinging our tongues with it’s sweet tartness.
I’ve longed to press forward these days. To skip tears and heart breaking and be on the other side of the valley.
But I’m afraid if I did I’d miss the moon.
And so I breathe and I ask God for more grace and more days to see Him in the little things. And to trust that those are what make the long days, the hard days, beautiful.
If only we keep stopping to see the moon.