I remember this day.
Not because anything big happened, but because of the big I felt beat in my heart.
We had walked the length of the beach and as the sunlight gave way to its golden late day hour, she asked if I’d carry her back.
And I picked her up.
Her ever longer legs dangled down against my own. Her size now much different than the baby and toddler I once held. But her head found rest in the nook beside my own. Her arms wrapped around me, and my arms wrapped around her.
I carried this growing girl who in truth could have walked on her own.
And I savored it. I took my time with it.
I knew. I could feel. A door about to close.
A door to a time I had cherished so dearly, the days when I could still hoist and carry her tired body against my own.
Because sometimes raising our children feels like that, like a long hallway of doors.
One and then another and another and on – stretching out farther than we can see.
A vast corridor of firsts and lasts and all the spaces in the middle.
The first roll overs, the first crawls and the first steps. The last time they fell asleep in our arms. Those sweetest first words when they called us their own – Mama and Dada. The last time we sang the ABC song while washing their hair in the tub. The first time we dropped them off at pre-school. The last time we filled a sippy cup. The first time they slept through the night. The last time they asked for their beloved stuffy.
Between each door exists a season, a stage, sometimes simply a fleeting moment.
But then again and again, their hand reaches forward, clutches the knob, and opens the door welcoming in a new milestone, a new chapter… and in doing so, the door behind them gently falls closed.
It’s both a breath-taking beautiful joy, and a deep soulful ache.
We cheer and celebrate and give thanks for their growth as they step over the threshold of an open door. And we grieve the goodbyes we must make as they stand perched to a close another door.
Sometimes the lasts flutter by us, and we don’t notice until they’re gone.
But every now and then, like this precious day on the beach, we get the gift of a pause. A moment when we’re suddenly acutely aware a door is about to close. We can feel the breeze of its swing blow across our cheek. We know a goodbye is coming.
And we make sure to take it all in. This season, this stage, that has come with both its challenges and its smiles. This time in their story that we’ll never get back that has been so fully written with love.
I paused the door on this day.
I held my girl. And while I did, I made sure to notice the pitch of her voice, the wet sand beneath my feet, her weight in my arms, and the sun’s warmth on my face.
I wanted to remember.
And I do, I remember this day between doors.
(words - You Are Loved - Emily Roussell)
Not because anything big happened, but because of the big I felt beat in my heart.
We had walked the length of the beach and as the sunlight gave way to its golden late day hour, she asked if I’d carry her back.
And I picked her up.
Her ever longer legs dangled down against my own. Her size now much different than the baby and toddler I once held. But her head found rest in the nook beside my own. Her arms wrapped around me, and my arms wrapped around her.
I carried this growing girl who in truth could have walked on her own.
And I savored it. I took my time with it.
I knew. I could feel. A door about to close.
A door to a time I had cherished so dearly, the days when I could still hoist and carry her tired body against my own.
Because sometimes raising our children feels like that, like a long hallway of doors.
One and then another and another and on – stretching out farther than we can see.
A vast corridor of firsts and lasts and all the spaces in the middle.
The first roll overs, the first crawls and the first steps. The last time they fell asleep in our arms. Those sweetest first words when they called us their own – Mama and Dada. The last time we sang the ABC song while washing their hair in the tub. The first time we dropped them off at pre-school. The last time we filled a sippy cup. The first time they slept through the night. The last time they asked for their beloved stuffy.
Between each door exists a season, a stage, sometimes simply a fleeting moment.
But then again and again, their hand reaches forward, clutches the knob, and opens the door welcoming in a new milestone, a new chapter… and in doing so, the door behind them gently falls closed.
It’s both a breath-taking beautiful joy, and a deep soulful ache.
We cheer and celebrate and give thanks for their growth as they step over the threshold of an open door. And we grieve the goodbyes we must make as they stand perched to a close another door.
But every now and then, like this precious day on the beach, we get the gift of a pause. A moment when we’re suddenly acutely aware a door is about to close. We can feel the breeze of its swing blow across our cheek. We know a goodbye is coming.
And we make sure to take it all in. This season, this stage, that has come with both its challenges and its smiles. This time in their story that we’ll never get back that has been so fully written with love.
I paused the door on this day.
I held my girl. And while I did, I made sure to notice the pitch of her voice, the wet sand beneath my feet, her weight in my arms, and the sun’s warmth on my face.
I wanted to remember.
And I do, I remember this day between doors.
(words - You Are Loved - Emily Roussell)
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