Have You Seen My Lighthouse?

Have you ever started looking for something and simply couldn't find it?

Your car keys.

Your sunglasses.

Your wallet.

Or, God forbid, the one Paw Patrol water bottle that you know you set down the second you walked through the door...but unfortunately the dog, the cat, or one of your other children has since claimed it as their own.

That's how I've been feeling lately.

Like I've misplaced something.

The funny thing is...

I can't tell you what it is.

It's sitting right there on the tip of my tongue.

Just outside my thoughts.

If I could just focus a little harder...

Concentrate a little longer...

Turn my music down a little lower….

Maybe it would come into view.

But these past few days—whether it's something cosmic, the Minnesota heat, or just plain exhaustion—it hasn't.

I've been looking for my lighthouse.

The problem is...

I can't see the light through the fog.

And let me tell you, that fog has a lot in it.

Studying.

Motherhood.

Womanhood.

Hair thinning...because apparently that's something we're doing now. (FML.)

Trying to remember what day it is.

Adjusting to a house full of children for the summer after getting used to working from home in complete silence.

And my almost five-year-old daughter, who somehow manages to sleep perpendicular to me every single night, waking me up with a knee, a hand, or—my personal favorite—her tiny little elbow planted directly into one of my ribs.

I know.

I know these days are precious.

I know they "grow up so fast."

But can I say something out loud?

Sometimes I'd really love time to speed up.

Just a little.

I'd love to peek into the future, laugh about this season, and think,

"Remember when everyone needed me every seven seconds?"

And the funny thing is...

We're not even in the thick of it yet.

My kids aren't heavily involved in sports or other activities.

Our evenings aren't filled with practices and tournaments.

I've heard enough parents say, "Just wait..."

Trust me.

I know my time is coming.

So instead of wallowing in the fog...

Instead of wishing this season away...

I'm trying something different.

I'm breathing.

I'm standing at the kitchen window a little longer.

I'm looking at my to-do list and reminding myself...

The dishes will get done.

The spaghetti sauce will get made.

(Also, public service announcement: Aldi does NOT carry unsweetened cocoa during the summer. You're welcome to whoever desperately needed that information today because they also put it in their spaghetti sauce.)

Everything will be okay.

The sun will come up tomorrow.

As little orphan Annie so wisely reminded us.

Then morning comes.

A tiny little brown head pops up from underneath the covers, hair sticking every direction from what looks like the best night's sleep anyone has ever witnessed.

"Mommy...how did you sleep?"

Well, sweetheart...

Mama didn't sleep very well because you were touching me the entire night.

How did you sleep?

Without missing a beat, she smiles and says,

"I slept so good because I was touching you the whole night."

And just like that...

I realized something.

The fog hadn't lifted.

My life hadn't suddenly become less chaotic.

The dishes were still waiting.

My studying wasn't magically finished.

My hair wasn't any thicker.

The kids would still ask me for approximately 4,372 things before lunchtime.

Nothing around me had changed.

But something inside me had.

I'd spent the past few days searching for my own lighthouse.

Trying to find my footing.

Trying to see a little farther ahead.

Trying to find the light.

And all along...

I had forgotten that, for our children, Matthew and I are already that place.

When they're scared, they come to us.

When they've had a bad dream, they come to us.

When they're sick.

When they're excited.

When they're proud.

When the world feels too big...

They come home to us.

That morning, though...

It was my turn.

She slept so well because she was touching me.

Not because the room was quiet.

Not because everything was perfect.

She slept because, in that moment, she was touching her safe place.

Her lighthouse.

Her way home.

The funny thing about lighthouses is they don't spend their time searching for the light.

They simply stand where they are.

Steady.

Faithful.

Shining.

Maybe today I don't need the fog to lift.

Maybe I don't need to see five miles down the road.

Maybe today it's enough to know that, even on the days I feel lonely, tired, overwhelmed, or a little lost...

Someone still sees me as strength.

As softness.

As home.

And maybe...

Just maybe...

That's been the light I was looking for all along.

Now...

Does anyone have an Apple AirTag I can borrow?

Because my car keys are still missing.