“The Lord will fight for you; you need only to be still.”
– Exodus 14:14
. . . . .
School mornings used to be mine. I packed the lunches, sorted the clothes, checked the backpacks, and decided when the day began. It was the work of three poured into one.
Now, just like poof, they do it all.
Lunches are packed without me. Clothes move from washer to dryer on their own rhythm. Backpacks are no longer my concern. I still hold to the small joy of waking them, a brief space of love and softness before the day hardens.
The pace is theirs to set. If they stumble, the consequences are theirs to meet. They call each other out when it is time to go. Not me.
What is left for me is simpler. One good breakfast, not the short-order menu it once was. A cup of coffee. A house in motion. Their footsteps and voices weave through the rooms while I sit still.
I recall Exodus 14, when God instructed the Israelites to be still at the edge of the sea. So it is with me. This season is about letting and holding still.
They are coming of age. What I once carried for them, they now carry for themselves.
And I, still learning how to let go, still learning how to live in the in-between, find myself in the tender space between memory and unfolding.
This is where I have come to be. I never saw it coming.