Lessons from tonight: It’s probably not wise to wear dark blue if a very small somebody is going to cry himself to sleep on your shoulder. Also: It’s one thing to take your friend’s one-year-old to the park to play. He’s not necessarily going to be so keen on seeing you at bedtime.
Let’s just say that this particular babysitting venture wasn’t an unqualified success. (We won’t even talk about how long it took to get his older siblings to sleep, what with the lost stuffed rabbit, the contraband storybooks, the unwanted lullabies, and — just for a little comedic relief — the cherry tomato on the floor, which I stepped on repeatedly). But you know what? That’s just the way it is sometimes.
Feeling so philosophical about the happy chaos of life with small children: it’s just another of the ways I was shaped by growing up the oldest of eight.
Start talking about the unborn, and I may be a little emotional about the term “fetus,” because I knew and loved and prayed for my siblings since they were just that tiny and unseen. Now that even the youngest of them are rapidly closing the age gap and becoming my peers, I’m feeling just an echo of that joyful ache my parents are experiencing in watching them fly the nest. Oh, be safe! Fly well! Know bone-deep that you’re loved by God.
Now, more than ever, I’m glad to be reminded that my brother’s keeper is none other than Jesus Himself.
Elisabeth Adams 