This morning, the kids and I walked down to the creek. As Julianna kicked her feet in the muddy water, Alex commandeered two short sticks and squatted in the rocky streambed to dig for buried treasure. Shortly he came over, grunting under his imaginary load. “Mommy, I found my treasure box!” he said. “This is the BIG dump trucks!”
I asked him to find me a treasure box full of time, but he just looked at me like I was crazy and then went back to searching for the really important stuff—like dump trucks and red tractors.
Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could hoard time, lock it up in a box, and bury it by the creek, to be dug up at will? I think I’d dole it out in tiny parcels, to make sure it lasted—to extend a productive hour into an hour and fifteen; to give us the ten minutes we need to make dinner a relaxed affair instead of shoveling food down before lessons.
But time, unfortunately, doesn’t fit in a box. Actually, I’m not sure any treasure fits in a box. My treasure is:
– Julianna tipping her head back and laughing behind her nose, her shoulders shaking with mirth;
– Alex flying his Raggedy Andy around the house, shouting the “Superman” theme at the top of his lungs;
– Christian, whose attention to detail insures that we are all taken care of, and whose sense of humor allows him to take all the grief he gets from me, friends and family members for being so conscientious;
– amazing family members, friends, neighbors, and fellow parishioners, who mow our yard when we’re gone, relieve our stress, and never fail to appreciate the work we do at church;
– my back yard bordered by a stand of young sycamores, a 2-foot aspen tree thriving behind rabbit fencing, and up-and-coming fruit trees;
– a successful writing year.
What is your treasure?
