“I just remember them as preschoolers….” their former preschool teacher said.
Brooke and I walked into the little tea shop in our town, further cementing our entrance into the 40’s.
“Giving up coffee?”
“No way, just trying to not drink it ALL day…” I said.
“So how are the kids?”
Not in preschool.
“How’s the business?”
Still a toddler, about to enter preschool.
A 10-minute community friend chat, while buying tea, are fragments of the belonging that seem to be reemerging.
“Great seeing you…”
The little bell on the door ushered us back outside.
“Wasn’t that super cute?”
“Yeah, so glad we ran into her…”
Our kids are certainly in a different season of life than when she last saw them.
Our lives are in a different season than when we last saw her.
So is hers.
That’s the beauty, and the horror, of time. It keeps marching.
The years sail by, not asking how we feel about it.
But over and over again, it invites us into the waters to sail with it. To not resist its force or wish it away entirely.
They’re going to sail by, whether we are aware of it or not.
Might as well embrace the weathered skin, the graying hair, and the stories that give these years hope, and lots of chances to say sorry and try again.
