Daylight savings time. I would like to meet the individual who thought this was a good idea. I certainly didn’t get a vote.
It was actually 6:52 when I took this picture. I tend to hold on, as long as I can, to that precious hour that gets lost in the abyss of nothingness. I keep my clock just as it was yesterday, until Chad get’s annoyed and changes it for me. Where did my hour go? And how do I get it back? I spend the entire day with this vague feeling that I am running behind. That I have forgotten something. That I have lost something.
I did lose something. . . I lost an hour and I’d like it back, please.
In the end, it’s just another reminder that I am not in control. Another reminder that our days are fragile. Time is fragile. Life is fragile.
Unless your head was stuck in the clouds, you were likely struck with that message this weekend. Watching all that has occurred in Japan, Libya, and even in the Western United States. . . Earthquakes, Tsunami’s, threats of nuclear meltdowns. . . oh my, it’s scary.
In the early morning hours of Friday, as the news was just breaking, I was over-whelmed with a heavy feeling. As I observed the unfolding scene on the news it became so clear how out of control so much of life really is. Like many. . . I felt helpless.
Then, I looked out my window and was over-whelmed at the breathtaking scene before my eyes.
We couldn’t get outside fast enough.
It was as if she knew that this would be it for the year. Like she was saying her farewells to the beautiful, deafening peace of a snow covered morning. I watched in awe as she literally, kissed it good-bye.
As I stood in the freezing cold temperatures, with snow-soaked jeans, and chattering teeth the only thing I felt was amazed. Amazed that one part of the world was blanketed with such vast beauty, while another part was being wrecked with devastation. Amazed at the reality that while I watched my little girl throw snowflakes in the air, others were anxiously awaiting notice that their loved ones were safe.
The truth was blaring. . . I am not in control.
It is in times like these when I realize, in a different and more real way, that today is all I have. That this moment and this experience is the only one that matters. And so I pay attention a little more. I feel the chill of the fresh air as it enters my lungs and I listen more carefully to the laughter as it crosses the space between where she is and I am.
We had a nice morning. . . Charlie, Chanelle and I. The three of us gathered around the television and watched videos of the years that have passed. We watched little Charlie as he learned to sit up and crawl, and walk. And we watched the screen as Chanelle so seamlessly made her way into our family while the kids sat in awe and commented that “I can’t believe I wore diapers.” and “Oh, that baby is so cute!”
They keep growing. . . I am not in control.
And like someone flipped a switch the following day greeted us in an entirely new manner. Sun shining brightly in the sky, and melted snow transitioned the white hue of the ground to a shade of green.
The bright sun and warmer temperatures immediately brought forth excited chatter and light moods all around. Again I felt it. . . amazement. Amazement that even in the midst of such tragedy hope is found. Even when there is devastation for which there are no answers, peace is available. And for just a moment I am engulfed with a feeling of thankfulness.
In that moment I find myself not frustrated, but thankful, that I am not in control.