I went through a Rent phase; the song Seasons of Love has really stuck with me:
Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes
How do you measure, measure a year?
In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
And it made me realize that, as my life moves from the daily, grinding time warp of babies/bottles/diapers to history readings and math lessons and meeting friends, time moves a lot faster now. Days don’t drag on with the novelty of first words and steps and misadventures in potty training.
So what am I measuring my life in when, as my workaday husband says, “one day bleeds into another”?
It seems like every time I turn around, it’s Sunday again. Time to make sure everybody is clean-ish, fed, and paid out allowance for the week (it’s sweet to watch their faces as they drop their quarters in the offering plate).
And it seems like, more and more, there comes a point during the singing where I come undone. My throat catches at some beautiful, perfect phrase about the love poured out for me–me, the mom who lost her cool all week or put herself first or whatever sin or struggle that comes to mind.
And as He stands in victory
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me
For I am His and He is mine
Bought with the precious blood of Christ
I can’t sing for a while after that. The voices of my brothers and sisters have to carry me and I work to wipe a at tears like a five-year-old who knows she’s too big to cry but can’t help it.
I can’t help it. My need is great and my Savior is greater and that kind of Love is overwhelming.
What patience would wait as we constantly roam
What Father so tender is calling us home
He welcomes the weakest, the vilest, the poor
Our sins they are many, His mercy is more
But if I have to measure my days, I can’t think of a better way to do so.