run with endurance

My fingers are tired. Not from lack of use, necessarily, but from holding on to words that weigh heavy and long to be planted. The soil of pen and paper, or today, of screen and keys. 

One hour and a sleeping wee one and another at art class. I have solitude and my spirit soars. My fingers stretch and dance across the keys as a caged animal finally free.

Life is full of stories. Of sacred moments. All glorious and weighty and easily missed with the pressing in of demands and messes and emotions and sleep deprivation.

It has a been a long winter, except that time passes quickly. An odd thing really, where the cold stretches to cover several seasons but the calendar pages flip when it seems the month has just begun.

A winter long with jack frost and jackets, and a grandma who has weathered an onslaught of viral invaders by the troop. She was eager for company and we, recently recovered from pneumonia,  packed our cheer and drove to deliver it. My tired face and two smallish girls bursting with life. Over the river and through the hills, to grandmother's house we drove.

The post box sits a street away and we stopped to gather it, the mail. Evie left our car to open the small door and peer inside the box. It emptied and filled her arms. I opened the car window beside where she stood. She placed the envelopes on the seat beside me declaring,"I'm going to run to grandpa and grandmas! Drive slowly behind me please."

For a moment, I went back. Back to little me and this road and that mailbox. Running feet that carried a dream-filled me down the little road toward home. Or feet that moved slowly, stopping to listen or see or smell or touch or pluck something pretty.Tree-lined on one side and a curvy watery pool on the other.

But there she was, my little person. A thing of beauty and wonder. Feet flying and hair blowing and arms pumping. I felt it, a catch in my throat. I drove behind her, past the trees and watery pool, around the curve and up the hill. All things sacred here.

I watched her, each step. And my heart called after her,"Run! Run!" She did not look back but with purpose of stride pressed on. "Throw off every sin, and the weight which so easily entangles and run with endurance the race set before you and keep your eyes fixed on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith! Keep running and don't lose your wonder," my heart cried and turned to prayer. "Jesus, keep her."

The sacred, on a warmish winter's day in March, where golden sun kissed the waking earth. Where my breath caught and time stopped and God spoke.