Perspective is almost impossible to have without stepping back and allowing light, space, and sometimes time to give us necessary wisdom.
Mark plays a console game on our television after his school and piano work are finished. It is a 30-minute reward for his efforts. He doesn’t sit as he plays; he jumps and dodges on one spot of rug, mimicking the moves of the game. The inexpensive rug in the room is starting to show wear on his spot. Exasperated, one day, I pushed my laundry baskets over the area and asked him to play on a different square of carpet. Days later, as I vacuumed over and over the spot, trying to pull up the fibers of the rug so they wouldn’t look so matted, I realized that I was being ridiculous. If Mark were to no longer be part of our life, I would treasure that square of rug because it was his spot. I would be sad that I had been more concerned about the rug than him enjoying his reward for hard work. No more complaining about the rug.
I have on loan two books which commemorate 25 years of our neighborhood church history. On its pages I see the portraits of my friends when they still had their children living at home. I read the accounts of their service in the church, doing the work I do now. Younger, more vibrant faces shine up at me from the pages, showing my now elderly neighbors in their days of deep service in the Church and the community. We are living the same story, 10, 20, 30 and 40 years behind our friends. I see ourselves in our friends’ faces in the book, taking our turn to serve with the youth and Relief Society. We will keep changing responsibilities, just as they did, and find ourselves back in Primary or Sunday School, and perhaps back again. What do my friends in this book teach me? That these days are fleeting. They are the adventures we will look back on for years to come. The stretching we feel now can help us grow to be a little more wise and kind– a little more like our friends.
I am tenderhearted this week as I finish the end of an era of teaching home school. The books on the shelf have served their purpose. What will I do with them now? I am not ready to give many of them away. They are a monument to how we have spent our days together. I gained a bit of perspective recently as I mourned this loss. I realized that what I have given my children, and the bond we have because of it, will not be taken away, even though circumstances change. As I step away from the books, papers, projects, and especially precious time together, I begin to see the fruits: our relationships and abilities rise up and take their place. I am so thankful for these years.