The morning begins simply and purposefully. The boys and I eat breakfast, clean up dishes, make beds … all of it completed with, seemingly, contented airs. First one thing is finished, then the next, and the decided and determined course of slow and steady becomes a rhythm that breathes joy into the mundane. I pause, midstream, and see this with eyes resolved to frame the plain, every day moments for what they actually are: glory come down.
I breathe deep, knowing that this must be my practice.
Over and over and over.
World without end.
As our routine and ritual plays out, we gather on the sofa to read aloud. As we are drawn deeper into the story and questions arise, we pause and discuss, compare and contrast. For one cannot traipse and footslog their way through the dominion of elves and dwarves. No, this territory must be revered and respected. Inevitably, however, when opinions are shared, a boy forgets to extend that same respect to his brother and words begin to fly like arrows. Voices rise. Emotions flare. And in a single moment, the morning that was wrapped in gold burns hot and I am left with hands dripping dross.
This is a practice...
Would like to continue reading?
Then, please join me over at Emily Wierenga's place for this week's Imperfect Prose
where I am guest posting and bleeding brokenness all over the place.