This Life

Darkness is falling much more slowly these days. When I look outside my window, I see a mass of green from the giant old tree in the back yard, which fills the glass. Little blocks of pale blue slip between the branches, but twilight is taking over, and that feels good.

My kids sit close together on the couch to play a video game. Earlier I raced my daughter in MarioKart, and I lost both games in an infuriating manner. I’ve grown up a lot, but losing gracefully is still a struggle. Over the floor, the pieces of the Harry Potter Lego set my son is slowly assembling are scattered.

My husband is in front of the computer, tapping in a grocery list to pick up tomorrow. Then he will sweep the floor, and I’ll mop it. Piles of towels are stacked on our bed, where I folded them. The dishwasher, for once, is mostly loaded. Joe puts old music on the stereo and turns it up loud.

It’s a typical night, ordinary in every way, and I am trying to take a picture of it in my mind, so I will remember this moment and a thousand others like it, so that I’ll know this is the good stuff, that this, right here, is exactly what I’ve always dreamed. This is what I’ve always wanted. Thank you, God, for my family and our life together. 

It may be that in a day or two I will be aggravated with being in the house, or frustrated with the weather, or bored with the books I am rereading. I may grumble against the lack of privacy or roll my eyes because no one ever remembers to pick up after him/herself without being reminded a hundred times.

When these moments come, I want to have ones like this fixed in my mind, ready to play, to remind myself what a good life actually looks like, to recalibrate my heart when it tries to go astray.