This post isn’t going to go anywhere; I have no thesis to develop. I just wanted to capture a moment. Yesterday, in the morning rush, getting everyone ready to go on an outing, I looked up and saw Jane, kneeling beside Wonderboy, carefully fitting one of his hearing aids into his little ear.
Just that. The eleven-year-old girl, smiling, concentrating, hands deftly positioning the ear mold and tucking the aid behind the ear. The tiny boy, head patiently tilted, cooperating. The normalness of the moment: this day was nothing special, just a regular morning.
I had to blink back tears. Sometimes it fills you up and overflows, you know? That rush of emotion when you see how blessed you are?
How grateful I am for the moment! That such tender attentions from a sister to a brother should be commonplace, that a three-year-old should have such trust and confidence in his not-really-all-that-big big sister—to glimpse that love and trust, to notice the moment before it flies past, is the best kind of gift. It’s like God pushes the pause button on the videotape of your life, and you get a rare moment to study one single still frame before it all zips back into fast-forward again.
Letters from Thailand: the Third
This Week Was
These Things Always Have to Happen on a Sunday
Saturday in These Parts