Enough

“I remember the huge driveway and when you came out to play with me. We colored the entire driveway with chalk. You drew mermaids in the waves and we skinned our knuckles with the last bits of the chalk because we used it all up. Do you remember that, Mom?”

Yeah. I do. I remember I physically came out, but my mind was racing with all the things I needed to do inside to take care of you girls. I had to keep diverting my attention back to the moment. Back to the chalk.

Back to the feel of the grit and the powder and skrissssh of the blue hunk disintegrating in my hand as I swished it back and forth, back and forth. We did skin our knuckles. But somehow that was satisfying.

Inside were sleeping babies. One of them with no words and low muscle tone and a new diagnosis every three months. A husband working long hours. The low rumble of the stress and pressures of life.

But here we were. You and I, swish, skrish, scrape across the driveway. Which was not huge, but it was to you. Chatting about what to draw next. A normal, lovely moment we both remember.

Maybe that’s life. Maybe being present with your kids is just that. Hauling your baggage of pains and fears and unknowns and stress outside to scrape brilliance into their memory. Sure, I wished I could put all the burdens down. Maybe now, I can. That’s growth.

But then? Before I knew how? Maybe that’s all I could do — just haul it out, set it beside us, and draw on the sidewalk while the wind blew and the cars whizzed by and the clouds gathered. And listen. Listen to the little voice full of questions and plans. And be there for her. Imperfectly. But there.

I had no idea — that was enough.

The Lord of hosts is with us;
The God of Jacob is our refuge (Psalm 46:7).