Deutschland: Another one, come and gone.

Last night, I realized that with Jayla turning 11 last August, she probably will not be able to dress up and go trick or treating much longer. How many more years do we have? Honestly, Halloween became one of my favorite occasions once I entered motherhood. I know it's a funny and evil thing for some people. Although I am aware of the history of it - the kids and I read about it every year during school - it doesn't really bother me. To us, it's just about costume and fun and candy - a time for children to simply enjoy being kids. We aren't pretending it's somehow about Jesus, trying to squeeze him in the nooks and crannies, over and around the competing thrill and excitement the day inherently evokes. Unlike other holidays where we must work so hard to keep him center stage, which always makes me sad.

I couldn't help but be touched yesterday evening at the kindness of strangers who spent their hard earned money to buy candy and pass it out to children they may or may not know, as we walked around big grandpa and grandma's block. Each neighbor at their door, looking over the kids' costumes, asking who they were dressed as, giving them a treat. No matter its roots, it has become quite an All American Tradition. I wanted to hug all those nice people, whichever candidate the political sign staked in their yard endorsed. There is a soft spot in my heart for each one with their porch light on and a bowl full of candy in their hands. Even the guy handing out adult beverages to the parents. I kid you not. (We politely declined.) A registered independent, for sure. ☺

It seems no matter how hard I try, I can not soak up the goodness of these most precious years quite enough. In a flurry of activity, buried beneath a heap of labor, amidst the schooling and the cleaning and the cooking and the correcting and the cleaning and the teaching and the cleaning and the bedtime stories and the cleaning and the meals and the cleaning and the birthdays and the cleaning and the admonishing and the worrying and the tears and the praying and the cleaning and the laughter and the cleaning they rush past me. Before I am willing to let them go, they are gone. They age, I age, we move onward, ready or not. Not ready.....

I suppose the best I can hope for is the ability to keep perspective. To remember that the moments, each treasured stage is fleeting, that one day this tightly knit unit will disperse as they each move on into lives and families of their own, that few of the things I fretted over will amount to anything at all. To build memories. To keep promises. To clean less, laugh more. To not rush. To stop what I'm doing and look into their eyes as they speak to me. To listen to their voices. To hear their words. To make a fuss over them, letting them know they are special and unique and fearfully and wonderfully made and that it is my gift to hold them for this little while. To honor them with my time, my heart, my sacrifice, my service. To ensure they know they are my privilege, my blessing. To allow my eyes to fill with light when I see them in costume. To take joy in their joy. My beloved babies.