The blogosphere has been busy. My reader full of posts I haven't read. My inbox full of emails I've struggled to get through at the end of each day. Facebook statuses in the hundreds plus on "most recents". I can't keep up. In fact, for Friday, I reached into the archives for 66 Books to load a post written last year to fill my spot.
I read the words and was reminded of hope.
These days I've been busy. Busy making buttermilk pancakes at Lanie's request for breakfast. Busy holding her close and cuddling on the couch, overcome by memory after memory of how full this house has been. Busy chasing little ones up stairs at bedtime. Busy watching toy piles on the floor. Busy running my hands through garden herbs. Busy swaying on swings at the backyard playset; listening to girls giggle; feeling breezes brush my skin; breathing deep cool, evening air. Busy walking halls and touching walls and watching rain fall outside these windows. Busy with the business of moving on.
Our house went under contract last Sunday. When I woke up Monday, I realized I didn't have to make my bed that day for a potential home showing (I made it anyway). I didn't even vacuum until today (Thursday). Lunch plates linger till dinner. Laundry waits to be folded. Calendar, mail, routines--forgotten.
I've been too busy doing nothing but slowing down.
Savoring these remaining weeks in the first home my husband and I bought together, started a family, brought home babies, painted walls, hosted parties, and dreamed dreams. A place where I lived-loved-laughed, cried, raged, sang, grieved, danced, hoped, labored, feared, planned, and prayed.
Busy trusting. Busy loving. Busy remembering.