Some days are harder than others. Each day I try to give my fear to the Lord, but sometimes I am caught emotionally off guard. These last few days have been chilly and I've been able to snuggle with my boys under the covers of my bed. This morning I left them in their pajamas longer than usual. There's just something about little boys in warm jammies. Fall is here. I didn't know I liked autumn until I moved to Utah. I like turtle necks and hot chocolate in the morning. I like the way a cozy house smells when a spice candle is burning.
This morning, I set Little Buddy down in his crib because The Rock Star asked me to turn on some music. I chose a lullaby album that is all instrumental. When it began, Matthew was so happy just to crawl around his crib and listen that I left him there while I cleaned my bathroom. Several minutes later I needed my broom. I turned the corner out of my room and my breath caught, midway to my lungs. Matthew sat, content, in his crib. He had his big green pacifier sticking out of his mouth and his gaze was transfixed on a toy he was maneuvering in his chubby hands. Garrett was lying on his bed. His legs were bent and a book rested on his thighs. More books were strewn around him and he quietly read to himself while unknowingly keeping time to the music with his foot. The CD player sang a version of Morning Has Broken.
And just like that, tears welled up in my eyes and spilled over.
Just like that, I wanted to cling to the image--to beg it never to leave my mind. So simple. So normal. So worthy of being forgotten. So worthy of being remembered. An event so ordinary as brothers keeping to themselves in their bedroom on a Friday morning could bring such strong reaction for the very reason that it might not be commonplace. My days of these magical moments could be numbered. Are, in fact, numbered. For even if they remain mine forever, little boys grow up.
It was instrumental but it's only fitting that the stereo played the song it did. Morning has broken, like the first morning. Blackbird has spoken, like the first bird. Praise for the singing, praise for the morning. Praise for the springing fresh from the word. Sweet the rain's new fall, sunlit from heaven. Like the first dewfall, on the first grass. Praise for the sweetness of the wet garden. Sprung in completeness where his feet pass. Mine is the sunlight, mine is the morning. Born of the one light, Eden saw play. Praise with elation, praise every morning. God's recreation of the new day.
Every morning with them is blessed. These little men are brothers. Bound not by a common face and not by blood. Bound, instead, by the joy of friendship and unforced affection. Bonded by something greater--eternal Love above. They laugh together. They play together. They are genuinely happy in the presence of one another. And this morning, they attempted the art of being separate--together. They read and played alone, existing under the tune of the same song.
Before the moment could break itself, before a baby could see his mother in the doorway and before a boy could grow weary of his books, I wiped my eyes and walked away. I didn't want to watch the moment break. Because some day, when the boys have grown and gone or when life has dealt us a devastatingly different fate, I want to be able to close my eyes and see them together like that. I want to hear the piano ringing through their room. I want that sweet morning to have broken but I want to pretend that the night never came.