What you get when you mix Legos and Monopoly in complete silence

My baby girl–my baby girl–started kindergarten this week. She was prepared in every sense of the word, having seen her brother start two years earlier, having made friends with siblings and teachers and classmates who followed from preschool, having learned to add and read and draw on her own. M, who was not thrilled when he started kindergarten two years ago, bounced off to his class with barely a glance back. He’s in that sweet spot where the joy of being with friends outweighs the work spread around it.

I was fine. What I mean to say is that I held together my little breaking lonely heart with positive encouragement for the kids. All of which worked remarkably well, until I came home to this:

And it hit me: the silence. Toys left in mid-play, the evidence of a summer well-spent. It was such a lovely summer, and a lovely seven years. It may have passed too quickly, with never enough time to enjoy it fully. But I know that I tried. I didn’t rush ahead, I didn’t wish for it to be over, or next, or different. If I wished, it was for time to slow or still. Instead, I enjoyed it as much as possible. Now it’s time to walk with the confidence my kids showed this week toward whatever new purposes God has planned for me. And of course, the old purposes of Lego building and Monopoly playing. Praise Jesus, for now I can have themĀ both.

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