I'm checking in to Boutique Rehab tomorrow.
I'm boutiqued out. Two days, and a total of 16 hours packing the car, unpacking the car, setting up, selling, smiling, transacting, tearing down, repacking the car and driving back home to cranky families and messy kitchens has me spinning.
Don't get me wrong. It was a great spin. I was surrounded by beautiful things and inspiring people, and blessings were all around me. I was caught up in a swarm of blessings.
But my body is saying stop it. A cold caught up to me, and today my voice stopped cooperating. It's gone. Can I just emphasize how much I hate not being able to talk? Words are my lifeline and it is really, really hard for me to feel like ME without them. So tonight I came home from Boutique #2 feeling like all I could do was crawl into something knit and get into my bed. Crummy.
But before I got there, I found out something amazing. Small miracles were happening in my absence. Because my daughter and I were tidbit-ing, my husband took an opportunity for some quality guy time with our 5 year old son.
He didn't know it at the time. He didn't grasp the gravity of the situation (who really does, when miracles are about to happen?). But he showed my son what a man was like.
My brave husband, who has a passion for the outdoors (which means he is a lover of all things backpacking or hiking), took my son on his first real hike. He challenged him with the two-mile journey. He told him he could do it, while understanding that he may not be able to. My son put on his Vans, grabbed his camera, a notebook, and pencil (just like Diego and his field journal, of course), and they set off up a mountain. Okay, maybe it was more like a big hill. But it was a mountain to my son.
My son put out all his physical body could exert, climbing and pressing into steep paths and toughing out a little fall. He snapped pictures of the scenery, the ocean in the distance, and his dad. My husband didn't think they'd get there, but they reached the glorious summit. I can imagine the radiance in their faces.
On the way down, my son was spent. My husband then carried him, knowing he was still just a little boy. He did not expect more. After all, true strength is inherently gentle. Reminds me of another good Father I know. The capital F one.
My son was so proud when I arrived home. I saw the paw print of a coyote he carefully copied onto the Marriott hotel notepad he'd brought along. He wrote awkward letters underneath, spelling "footpri," with the letters "nts" on the next line. I saw his photos. He beamed in the ones my husband took of him, looking like a tourist of God's great big world, with sunglasses and camera case around his neck.
Later, my husband quietly said he was a little jealous of me. I got to spend my day doing meaningful things, he said. I whispered (not to be dramatic...remember I can't talk) that he had quite a meaningful day himself. I reminded him of what I regularly witness: "Our son thinks you are the greatest thing in the world." He conceded, "I saw that for the very first time today." They hiked unto holy ground indeed.
Small miracles. Well, not so small, really. And where was I? Voiceless. Silenced. Absent from this busy, cluttered place we call home. As the mom and wife, I often feel like I'm keeping all the balls in the air, like I'm the conductor of a massive symphony of events and feelings and souls. But I love being reminded that God is always working, and doesn't need my words or even my presence to change the lives in my home. Somehow that is a huge, restful relief.
Just the rehab medicine I needed.