We were late.  Again. 

Rushing.  Pulling.  Urging.  Feet stomping.  Voice raising.

Trying to get that new blue jacket on Maddox.  He stands in the middle of the living room.  Lethargic.  Can’t he see we need to move faster?  Lily buckled in.  Blue jacket try again.  One arm in.  Two arms in.  One arm out.  Try again.  Stand still.  Don’t move.  Look at Mama.  We need to hurry!  Zip up.  Unmoving.  Slouchy.  Slow.  Feet trudging to the door.  One foot dragging after the other.  Maddox hurry!

He won’t.

I can’t make him.

He doesn’t understand.

And we are late.  Again.

Later that night, in bed, reading books.  Calming down.  There’s this sweet little book, found at the library, open above our heads.  Snuggling close.  Words spoken into the air.  Words about a little brown-haired boy, unlike my Maddox.  Golden locks brush my cheek.

Little boy, so much depends on… your starship pajamas…

The brown-haired boy, in pajamas, playing with flashlight, helmet and dog.

…that story about llamas…

The brown-haired boy, reading a book.  Llama in a spaceship.

…the way you don’t worry…

The Brown-haired boy building a stack as tall as he can.  Trucks.  Bowls.  Boxes.  Up to the ceiling.  I smile, empathizing.  Seeing the scene having played out so many times with my yellow-haired little boy.

…the way you won’t hurry…

The brown-haired boy, standing still.  Carefully, slowly, placing hat on dog.  And the words pierce me.  Right to the middle.  Memories of the frantic morning come flooding in, swirling around.  Eyes well up.  I wasn’t expecting this.  With the turn of a page I am thrown off-balance.  One sentence brings me to my knees.

Little ones won’t hurry.  It is unnatural.  What do I do when I force him into my world?  My hurried pace.  My rushing and pulling and urging.  Expecting him to be something that I am, but he is not.  Something he was not intended to be.  Is this what I want him to be?

Recently, a friend was describing a co-worker  to my husband and me and said, “It’s like she lives her life always going through a yellow light.  The light changes, she accelerates.  Makes it through just in time, then hits the brakes on the other side.  Jerking around anyone who is in the car with her.”

Shame, like a rough blanket, fell over me.  He didn’t mean to describe me, but as the words escaped his mouth I felt myself exposed in front of them.  I am that woman going through the yellow light.  I have been for as long as I can remember. 

There used to be pride.  I can do it all, all at once.

For the first time in this yellow-light life, there is no pride in hurried tasks.  Meeting deadlines.  Fitting in one last thing.  In place of the pride that once was, there are now three beautiful faces.  One, slightly weathered.  The partner who promised to love me despite me.  Two, slimming down.  Learning.  Watching.  Following.  Becoming.  Speaking what he hears and doing what he sees.  The yellow-haired boy in the new blue jacket.  Three, sparkling eyes.  Brand new.  A woman about-to-be.  Needing a woman who has been.

Who has been what?  Driving through yellow lights?  Jerking around these beautiful three?  Not stopping to see that their pace is slow.  Natural.  Perfectly organic in its own sweet rhythm. 

This was the intention of the Creator.  As my youth pastor used to say, human beings, not human doings.  Eyes lifted to the One with perfect timing.  The One who enables self-controlled living and patient hearts.  The One who wants me to see in my children a perfect example of how to come to Him.

The yellow-light life is disruptive.  Throwing out of alignment all that we were created for.  Clouding the hundreds of simple joys that He gives us when we stop planning.  Stop buying.  Stop pushing.  Stop going.  From one place to the next with no clear end after all the means.  When we stop putting aside all the goodness He puts before us.

The yellow light is intended to bring the car, slowly, to rest.  To waiting.  For the sake of all these beauties riding with me; for the sake of myself, remembering that I am one of His beauties…

I will pray that I will slow.