Pictures of pictures

 I should be packing now. Sidetracked by pictures and relics in drawers. Flipping through these, remembering the joy of our home when ground was broken. Our weekly road trips to watch it be built. A happy time.

I looked into yesterday's face.

Zach picking out his room. He was eight at the time.

 

We both gasped at his wardrobe choice.

Inscribing our wall. And yes, those are mom jeans.

I didn't know what the years would look like; the cookie swaps I'd host; the holidays and family gatherings; the sometime-struggles. I didn't know then the babies I'd hold and kiss and cradle or the one I'd mourn; the playdates and playmates we'd have and make; the parties; the late nights reading, writing, dreaming.

I didn't know I'd be a homeschool mom or a Bible-reading Christian. I didn't know how He'd transform this heart in the years, how He'd hold it out in front of me and tell me to look. And that I'd be better for it, hard as it was ... the looking, the heart.

I didn't know of the day we'd start packing to leave.

All I knew then, it was a sunny day and I was in love.

Before the foundation was poured.

I showed Shane the pictures.

"I could cry. Look how young we were," I said.

"You should cry. Look how old we are," he said. Always keeping it real.

I laughed.

Sunny day. And I love him still.