On friday’s, we write for five short minutes without editing and gussying the page. We spill what rises to the surface and share it, bravely with others, and we encourage. We give virtual high fives and hugs and pats on the back, sometimes, we gather in prayer too, for the broken stories, the wounded stories that sneak out when we weren’t expecting.
This is Five Minute Friday, this is how we roll.
We went with the intention of playing on the playground. The weather was good for it, so with a loaded down van full of scooters and kids we piled in and drove 2 minutes up the road, crossing the tracks to the park.
The kids were a tangle of metal and plastic, scooters unfolding, knee pads, elbow protectors and helmets clipped into place. They barely looked back to see where I was.
But before long the lure of the nearby library calls to us all, us, lovers of books and stories.
We heave the mess of paraphernalia back into the van and walk across the parking lot to the tiny annex library. It’s perfectly arranged for children. My kids sense this and immediately they disperse among the shelves.
It’s only a second before they see it up on the shelf–the puppet show stage with the red curtain. I think I took a hundred-plus photos of them that day, doing ordinary things, reading books, and playing pretend. I captured moments of them just being kids.
And though they might have thought I didn’t see them behind the lens, the truth is that I saw them better with that tiny glass window pressed to my eye.
With everything else blocked, I saw just them–in the moment–engaged in something that made their sweaty, red faces glow with delight.
We streak through most days. I complain about it a little. (Or maybe too much) It’s all moving so fast, a blur of moments hemmed in red flashes. They’re growing fast–I don’t need a grandmother to remind me.
I see it.
I know it.
I can feel the shrinking of days.
They played for another hour more at that tiny library with the Lego Lincoln.
We read every Pigeon book on the shelf and took turns giving him a voice.