The snow falls silently - big flakes finding their rest. The little ones and I are leaving the doctor's office in the evening and I am eager to be home. I shepherd them to the car, but the oldest lingers. I had climbed in the car to get the boys buckled in, and was growing impatient when I caught sight of her. She is six years old, and thinks snow is beautiful. "Just look at it all!" she says, large flakes landing in her hair, caressing those pink cheeks. She sticks her tongue out to taste them and twirls. I stop. What happened to the mystery? When a snowfall was an adventure, and something to be enjoyed? Is time pushing me, or am I pushing time - always in a hurry to get somewhere, to accomplish something, to check something off the list?
I wonder. When did life get so nearsighted? Task to task, appointment to appointment, meal to meal? The wonder of creation, water rising to the clouds and falling back again.
She looks beautiful. I breathe.
Sometimes we just need to breathe. To inhale life slowly, and to exhale with understanding and contentment.
The boys can wait. I climb back outside of the van and stand in the white sparkling flakes, cold and tender on my cheeks. I breathe. And time stops.