Yesterday was gorgeous outside. The temperature hit 80 degrees, the sun was bright, and we spent most of our day outside together. We went on our first picnic, did a little Easter scavenger hunt in the woods, and explored the remains of winter (like a full animal skeleton - hello, biology class!) and the first signs of spring until Cruz decided to fall in the water and had to be pulled out with a tree limb. It was quite the experience and thankfully we shared more laughter than tears as he sloshed his way back to the car and we took school out to the trampoline instead.
After a late dinner, the four of us went on a walk on the prettiest night. The sunset turned the sky pink and everything felt like summertime. Mila showed us a secret path around the pond she discovered a few days ago with Beau, and then we ever so sneakily hid in Gabels' backyard and threw large sticks in their yard until they saw us. We had a very appropriately-distanced catch up with them and stayed until the supermoon came out and led us back home, the kids in their pajamas and flashlights in hand.
Everything about last night felt like an otherwise normal summer night and gave me much hope and reassurance that we're on our way there. There is no better reminder of that than when we step outside. But I couldn't help but notice some distinctly different traits about last night that were bittersweet to think about diminishing when this is all said and done. Traits I want to seep into my bones and let them change me. Traits I hope linger long after Covid-19 does.
As we walked around last night, there were many families out. Moms and Dads weren't driving kids around from practice to practice, but were instead congregating closely around fire pits, grills, or basketball hoops. Dads were chasing kids behind bikes without training wheels, movies were on screens inside living rooms, and people sat on front porches connecting with loved ones over the phone. There was a subtle peace in the air and I felt connected in ways I just don't when we're all running from place to place all the time. The universal tenderness of this whole thing has bonded people in ways I've never quite experienced. It feels like God is binding us all with his love and care while we're called to be apart.
I know there will be things I miss about these days. I will miss how close the four of us felt. I will miss watching Cruz and Mila's thick bond, their laughter, how they sit so close on the couch, and how they can entertain each other for hours with bike horses and all their silly made-up challenges. I will miss being their teacher and having a front row seat to watching them learn every day. I will miss laughing our way through another math problem, sharing my passion for the arts and writing, and listening to Mila learn to read. I will miss the time - time for syrup and frothed milk in my coffee, for Harry Potter every morning at 8, for one more book, one more episode of American Idol, or one more game of Cribbage. I will miss our Sunday morning breakfasts and online church with tears streaming down my cheeks. I will miss meals around our table, the purple sticky smears of glue stick and pencil shavings always under our plates.
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