Last weekend, Jared and I visited our Colorado family.
As we drove home, tumbleweeds slung across the Kansas prairie and the Expedition bobbed in the wind. Jared and I marched our way through the words in this meaningful book, and mostly, as we reflected on our experiences with our family, we were overwhelmed.
Overwhelmed that such generous people claim us as family, overwhelmed by shared laughter, conversations of truth, and stories, told and retold.
In this season far from our family in Colorado and in Michigan, we are so thankful to snatch long weekends and breaks together.
We are thankful for shared mugs of coffee and the hands that hold them. Hands of people that love us, are for us, and accept us no matter if we come to them like a sun-ripened peach or almost rotten like a spotty banana.
We are thankful to celebrate those hands, to celebrate birthdays and Eagle Scout badges, to celebrate growth and tradition.
Across Kansas and Missouri, we felt the weight of it. The weight of our thankfulness, heavy, like a stack of library books or a bucket of water or an armful of firewood.
Jared carried it with long, silent moments; I carried it in the watery corners of my eyes.
We were glad to carry it then, and carry it still–not as a burden, but as a charge, to embrace and celebrate and rejoice and drink in each moment.