I scoop grandbaby in arms, eyes twinkling, grin pulled back, both hers and mine.
And I hear the words of Peter Pan whispering, “Come with me where dreams are born and time is never planned.”
But we are one, in this moment, when trust pools in her eyes like a soothing summer stream finding rest in a glen, so I linger in the nursery a little longer.
We rock and sway to the lullaby song, a song I’ve sung to her long before she was born. A song I sang to her before I could feel her move under skin and when her tiny heels arched pathways across swollen belly.
And the music pirouettes around the nursery room as we dance and she smiles.
Then eyelids sink like the setting sun as the weight in my arms grows heavy.
Gratefulness pools in my heart for these precious moments. Moments protected from the heat of the day, from the fire that burns inside when serving others’ urgencies.
Moments Anne Voskamp describes in her book, The Broken Way, when “Real love is in the really small gestures—the way your hands, your feet, move to speak your heart.”
Moments when you gaze into the eyes of a distraught mother and whisper “You are enough!”
Moments when your hands craft beauty to melt away another’s despair.
Moments when obscurity’s veil lifts with wisdom shared among friends.
I escape to the nursery glen where time stops while baby rocks. A place where I can leave my worries behind and mull over moments to precious to pass over quickly.
And then, like Wendy when Peter Pan beckons her to Neverland, I decide to fly…”
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