The sleepy sun gently pushed the fog of the morning aside and somehow, in the same motion, nudged the golden summer rays out of bed. This small spot on the earth was quiet except for the company of birds whistling their ballad from the tippy tops of the trees.
The setting seemed appropriate as she looked at me (with a smile from her eyes and depth in her tone) and told me, “We’ve decided that no matter the season we’re in as a family, we don’t want to rush. That we’ll treasure the now.”
And in a world that seeks what’s next or later or looks onto the next day or month or year–her words worked their way into my heart and felt like a pure, deep breath.
The kind that gives life.
Seasons of slow. Of moments. Of redefining the hard and giving them a new title of blessing. Seasons of learning. Seasons of hold onto this, because soon it’ll change. Seasons of quiet mornings, curly hair, and sweet snuggles. Seasons of little legs and silly smiles. Seasons of wonder in the simple. Seasons of three. Seasons of unrushed.
It was a gift really, to step into their season that morning.
To watch their love and the tender way they cherished and chose to preserve it. That’s what I long to mimic.
Their season of slow.