The Little Things
Sometimes discouragement lingers heavily on a regular Tuesday morning. When my oldest struggles to sound out the correct words of today’s lesson. I wrack my brain for all the ways to make it make sense, to help him focus better, to reinvent delight in our homeschooling journey. I plan field trips and add craft supplies to the Amazon cart and make a mental note to schedule a play date because surely there is a deeper issue at work here. I pray for patience as I remind him one more time what line we are on, knowing full well he’s already checked out. And so have I to be honest. Then I try something ridiculous. In my final futile attempt to regain his focus, I begin reading in a funny accent. This quickly captures his attention and propels him into a fit of giggles. He’s now delighted by every word coming out of my mouth. His disposition has completely shifted, and so has mine. We finish the reading, then the math with no tears on either end.
The next day we begin our schooling, and I notice he’s distracted and uninterested. I ask what he needs to help him focus and he requests my silly teaching voice. It’s become this magic gem of ours to transform the atmosphere and keep us in rapt attention.
And I bet you anything, at the end of a week filled with library trips, art projects, and frivolous outings, if you were to ask him what his favorite part of the week was, he’d tell you “the silly voices.”
And that’s when I realized that it’s the little things.
I’ve learned that a diploma doesn’t shape a person like the hours spent driving back and forth to class in the evenings when you could be home watching Gilmore girls reruns.
Like when my youngest smiles for the first time after three days of being knocked down by a terrible cold. I’m exhausted and weary and the slightest grievance could send me into a rage or leave me weeping. Little do I know, that smile was all that was needed to jumpstart my spirit and fill me with renewed hope. That smile will get me through another rough night.
Or when I get a text on a hard day from my mom offering to keep the boys for an hour so I can go for a run. And that feeling is reaffirmed when my feet hit the pavement and the cool air brushes against my face.
The spontaneous trips to the park or to get smoothies. The family movie nights and walks to Hey Sugar. The way Matt plays “Come Thou Fount” on the sabbath. The skipping rocks by the river, choosing to be locals in a faraway mountain town. The text from a friend checking in. The goodnight prayers and morning worship songs playing on Spotify in the quiet of a house not yet fully awake.
I really thought life was a summation of the big stuff, and overtime everything else disappeared through the slats, like the bars on a horse gate. I thought the shaping of my character required big, momentous experiences like graduation ceremonies and publishing deals and exchanging vows. But I’ve learned that a diploma doesn’t shape a person like the hours spent driving back and forth to class in the evenings when you could be home watching Gilmore girls reruns. And the currency of marriage is not bought with a diamond ring in front of a few dozen relatives. Rather it is paid for with tears and hard conversations. Lots of I’m sorry’s and I love you’s. Our marriage was not built on the foundation of a pretty ceremony, but on trust and sacrifice, and showing up in the daily, sometimes mundane ways. Through stretch marks and job changes and choosing forgiveness over justice.
In this life I have seen hundreds of sunsets, and not one of them is lost on me. I’ve slept under a dozen starry skies, baked hundreds of cookies, given thousands of goodnight kisses, read shelves filled of books, cried a fountain of tears, danced at numerous weddings, written countless words, painted stacks upon stacks of pictures, and driven thousands of miles across the US. And here’s what I’m realizing—
It’s always been the little things. Or maybe it’s the little things that become the big things.
