The sun is setting behind the trees, and I can see it while sitting in our living room. Nick's on a run and the house is quiet. Yet it's not. I hear laughter. Giggling. And little voices. I'm peeking around the corner at two beautiful children who are calm, happy, and home.
As quickly as that scene came, it's gone. There's a lawnmower cutting the grass next door proving there is life growing and flourishing this spring. There's a dog barking at the people walking by. The sun is still there. Still sinking further and further behind the house in our backyard, the beautiful beams of light dancing behind the leaves. But there isn't the laughter, the giggling, the little voices.
Our children aren't here yet. That is one of the hardest realities we face everyday. We are apart. I never would have thought my heart would feel like it was thousands of miles away with such depth at this point in the journey. I never would have thought that I'd be aching so much to have those children with their giggles and grins here in our home... now.
They aren't here. They're hours away. Perhaps they are giggling or maybe they're crying. "Father, care for them," is sometimes all I can pray. I'm not there to play with them, comfort them, or watch them. I'm left sitting in our home watching the sun set and wondering what I can do next to help get them home faster. I'm being a mother from afar.
And then I hear it. Silence. Stillness. I sense God telling me that it isn't up to me, that He has this. That He is caring for HIS children right now. He can see their smiles and hear their laughter or their frowns and cries. As I think on this I am moved to tears. Suddenly God seeing us in our all our moments is that much clearer. That much more real. That much more of a hope I cling to. I stop completely amazed by the love He has for us.
I watch the sun set, knowing that somewhere beautiful children can see the same sun. Sometimes sharing the sun is all that keeps this mama from afar going.
Check out my friend Emily's take on motherhood.
