They say time is a thief.
Looking at my twenty year old son, I want to agree with that sentiment. I can still see his tiny newborn face, all red and wrinkly from his time in the womb. Wisps of blond hair made his round head look like a ripe peach, and I would tenderly run my hand over it to feel how soft it was. His blue eyes were open wide to the world from the very first.
Time took that seven pound newborn and replaced him with a full grown man. Whatever fuzz he had on his head has now transferred to bristles above his lips and whiskers on his chin. It feels like a weird magic trick. Baby in arms, then *POOF*, full grown, slightly hairy, man.
I no longer know how much he weighs or his exact length, but I know for sure I can’t carry him. I tried a while back and almost blew out my aging knees.
He can now carry me. And yes, this has been successfully proven as well.
Our conversations have changed over the years. Chats featuring Lego creations and bike ride narratives have shifted to deeper, more grown-up topics like dirty politics and who makes the best coffee. It’s me, in case you’re wondering.
But as I sit here rocking on my front porch and wondering where all the time went, I find that time really hasn’t stolen anything.
It’s been a giver, not a thief. A giver of the most precious of gifts. Memories. So many beautiful memories, all woven together. There are some dark moments intertwined with the beautiful, too….don’t we all have those threads worked into our lives? Somehow, the darker weavings mingle in and make the lighter ones shine out even brighter.
I look at this tapestry of his childhood as it is finished off and I can’t help but marvel and be thankful. Thankful for the time I was given. My husband and I invited the Maker of all things beautiful into this project of raising this child. The Maker wove, combining parent threads and child thread, and oh, what a Weaver He is. An expert.
Looking at the finished product, you might not notice all the details. But I see them. Threads that were soaked with tears have a luster. The brightly colored ones were moments of learning and growth and fun. Somber threads of shadow and gray show the hurts through the years, but arranged perfectly to add depth of character to the design. It is a wonder.
He’s not finished yet, my son or the Weaver. The childhood portion of the grand design, however, has reached its final stages. My threads won’t be used as often from here on out. That’s okay. Other threads will weave their way in. That’s okay, too.
My heart wants to be sad that this slice of life is drawing to a close. I want to blame time for going too fast, not leaving me enough. I long to hold on just a bit more. Cling just a little longer. But that’s not the way this works, is it? Wasn’t this the goal all along? From baby to boy, from boy to man.
Time didn’t steal from me.
Time gave to me.
Time gave me twenty years of laughter and tears, sports and boo-boos, hard choices and hurting hearts, tiny toes and muddy jeans, days of joy and nights of pain.
Time gave me the raising of a man, and for that,
I say thank you.
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Longing & Belonging 
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