Sunday, a big thing happened in our little lives. And in our usual fashion, it was a bit of a hoot.
Losing the van keys in my purse before we even got out of the door. Very special attire including maternity shorts, holey t-shirts and I can’t even tell you what else. And then the awkward moment when I said to my “walking in the water” buddy, “Boy, it is sure hard to walk in these flip-flops.” Only to later realize out-loud, “Ohhhhhhh, THAT’S why everyone took theirs off before they got into the water.”
Bless. My. Flops.
Let’s just say that by the next day, our daughter described a Cormany-style baptism to my friend with these words, “It wasn’t pretty.” Followed by my, “But we got it done!” Even as we speak I think this is probably destined to describe our entire life’s work or at the very least, be printed on a pillow. Combine that with the fist pump for Jesus my lil’ man did in his pre-baptism picture and the Alvin and the Chipmunks: The Squeak-uel t-shirt he donned, the world will never be the same.
But something happened, even in the unconventional.
The moment that I reached my babies in the water…
Nothing. Else. Mattered.
Not the keys. Not the clothes. Not even the awkward water-walking.
All that mattered was in front of me.
Me. My love. And my bigs.
Sweet and sun-kissed, listening intently to his charge, leaning deeply into us as he prayed precious, life-giving words, surrounded by uncles and cousins and aunts and grandparents and treasured friends, trusting our sometimes feeble hands to bring them down into the water and back up again.
It was in the in-between of these moments that it struck me deeply.
We had made it. We had made it here. I had made it here.
Standing in a place where faith was their own.
Watching it grow as they wrestled with the loss of their Pop Pop and clung to the hope of heaven. Seeing it tested as my body failed over and over and over again. And being brought to our knees by their unfailing trust of a Father we said we knew.
And somewhere a piece of my heart quieted as they both came out of the water.
I had given them the best of what I had. I had given them the best of who I know. I had given them my Jesus.
So that when I wrestle with the day that I’m not here, be it in ten years or forty, I know they are left with the best of me.
And that, sweet friends, is just so very big.