Yesterday I took Matthew and Jack for a walk to the small beach down the block from our house. The freedom of vacation, coupled with the fresh Florida sunshine, left the boys wound up and louder than usual. We needed quiet time, where the calm of the waves and the hum of motor boats on the ocean, could drown out their raised voices and bickering.
Dad needed us to take a walk too. His tolerance for loud, incessant noise is less than mine and by late afternoon we were both feeling impatient.
The three of us stood ankle high in water and dug for shells worth keeping. The boys were calm and content and I was too.
Along the way I found a rock with a hole worn through it and, because it was unlike most of the other rocks along the shore, I decided to keep it. The other rocks were smooth. It was clear that, over time, those rocks had tumbled up against the grit of sand and the steady washing of waves.
The edges of my rock, though, were still rough. Somehow it didn't undergo any of the sand's natural smoothing or the ocean's polishing. Instead, a relentless beating of water up against one small spot of the rock's surface left a hole almost big enough to fit my pinky finger.
On the walk home from the beach, when the three of us were feeling calmed and refreshed by the beauty of our surroundings, I couldn't help but think:
Each day that I encounter my children, I get to decide: Am I going to parent like the gentle rolling of sand and waves or am I going to be a steady and relentless pounding of water leaving holes in their spirits?
This morning I placed my Florida rock on the window sill of our Texas kitchen. It's a nice reminder of the kind of parent I want to be.
Shining off until tomorrow...