It's likely unworthy of any attention or special notice, my favorite nurse says as she examines the slightly stretched, raised skin on one side of my nose.
It's not hugely obvious, but it's there -- a bump that should probably be checked out.
I leave the office with each hand clasping that of a little boy, a recommendation card for a dermatologist slid into the back pocket of my jeans.
As we step outside of the office and our faces meet sunshine, my boys unlock their fingers from my own and are running wild in two seconds flat.
And so is my mind.
I scramble to capture all that has broken free.
I buckle little behinds into car seats and wish that my fleeting thoughts were as easily bound before I settle on one thought.
Could we just have a break?
My heart and mind long for simple days spent wrapped up in the moments that spread out easily before us, free of tangled thoughts and unrest and dis-ease.
We've known these days, gifts we carelessly unwrapped and tossed aside for each new one that came perfectly wrapped in the new ribbon of each morning's sunrise.
We gobbled them up, gluttonous almost, devouring a harvest in which we'd barely toiled, just barely uttering thanks as the sun set daily behind the horizon.
What did we know then of love that came easily without sacrifice
of health that bloomed like clockwork leaves on trees
or of thankfulness for simply another day
of the Gardener's goodness.
My skin is all sorts of stretched out thin from growing and growing and growing during this time of His planting and sowing seeds of gratitude and trust into our hearts, into our minds.
Breaks don't come during the growing season, and I know, I admit, that I surely want to bear fruit come harvest.
There is a wrestling in breaking out of the tight-wound bud. And there is stretching in growth, in maturing, in coming to full bloom.
I abandon wild-grown thoughts instead giving my attention to the wild love strapped into two car seats behind me.
We talk about everything and nothing, and I cannot remember the details beyond smiles from the tender attention of a mother to her sons.
He weeds and waters and suns and grows through the clumps, the bumps of dirt, and there's a resignation of details on my part about what He'll use to fertilize and pull those weeds replaced with simple prayers of thank you and a begging to not leave me this way.
And He won't; because this is the kind of love that tends carefully with out break without abandon and without fail.