This morning, the pregnant moon lowers herself slowly into the bed of morning. Her glow leaves me breathless, and I run out onto the frost-glistened deck in my bare feet to try to capture her beauty. But my skill and my equipment are not enough, and I end up standing with my camera held aloft, trying to memorize the way her white-orbed face dresses up the sky. Some types of beauty can only be seen with the naked eye.
She lingers long, showing off her rounded body over my neighbors rooftops, robed in cloud and tree limb, hovering in the tendrils of my breath. It is only the cold that pulls me away, my feet turning blue and cheeks flushed. When I return to the warmth of the hearth, my youngest is waiting for me.
“The moon is beautiful,” he says, face pressed up against the glass of the French doors. This child has my heart, my eyes for the lovely. I smile and touch his cheek, words stolen by my time with sister-moon. I will drive him to school this morning, as his brother had to leave early to meet up with the math field day team. I need to hurry and get dressed.
We pray together, on the way, just as we used to when he was small. And the familiarity of it wells up inside of me. We pray for Teddy, at math field day. For their daddy, that he would find joy. And for the work of the day that God has set before each of us.
Before he gets out in front of the school, he leans over and blows me a kiss. Just like he used to. For one slow, sinking moment, all the years of his life float before me in that kiss. Without thinking, I reach out in the air and catch it, press it to my cheek. Just as I used to so many days before.
As I drive home alone, I am thinking of how quickly the years fly. I think about the ways we wait for certain milestones, how it never feels quite like we thought it would when they arrive. In the Bible study my women’s group is reading, the teacher tells us about one of the Hebrew words used in the Old Testament for “wait”: Qavah. It means, “bind together,” she says. As in the twisting of strands, like when rope is made.
Yes, this is what waiting does. It binds us together.
I think about this as I pull away from my boy. And the moon slowly disappears behind the hills as I drive home alone.