I was scrolling through my phone as I nursed my baby to sleep when Google Photos accosted me with a memory from three years ago: my second child who is currently days away from turning eight reciting a poem she had memorized for school. Tears welled in my eyes as I heard her little voice, saw her sweet and proud smile. When did her voice change? I asked myself. When did she lose those round cheeks?
Maybe it was just the postpartum hormones, but sadness gripped my heart. How had I let time slide so quickly through my fingers? How much of the last three years had been forgotten, left only to Google Photos to remind me of my beautiful babies? How many of these precious interactions are filed so deeply in my memory that even the briefest recollection awakens something so visceral in my heart?
When such memories surface, particularly with those whom I love the most, I find myself kicking myself. Why have I wasted so many precious hours prepping grab-and-go freezer breakfasts when I could have been snuggling with my children? Countless Saturdays have revolved around scrubbing toilets and dusting ceiling fans instead of having picnics, swimming in the lake, or sledding in our backyard as a family. How many hours have I spent looking at my phone rather than just enjoying nursing my babies? Why can’t I just focus on what is truly important, enjoying these people in front of me while I have them?
So many well-meaning people, often empty nesters, will see me and my kids and quip, “Enjoy it while it lasts” or “The dishes can wait.” And they are totally right. Time is a thief; the days are long, but the years are short. While so much of parenting young children has been so physically and emotionally draining, I would do just about anything to get to relive those early years with my big kids again.
But—and empty nesters who are reading this, don’t hold this against me—there is so much guilt unintentionally passed on in realizations and comments like these. My children are sleeping as I write this article, and I am fighting back tears and the urge to just go lie down and hold them tightly to my chest because I know I’d never regret that moment with them. Yet even if I closed this laptop and grabbed my kids and didn’t let go, it would never be enough. How could I not want more of these memories? How could I not want more of them?
Cleaning and cooking and folding laundry and running errands—all of these tasks pale in comparison to the pure joy that is my life with my husband and kids. Wouldn’t I much rather be playing Candyland—yes, even Candyland—with them than prepping fruit and veggies for the week? than disinfecting toothbrushes after a stomach bug? Yet those tasks have to be done, and they will be waiting (and compounding) when a free moment presents itself.
The sad fact is that the minutiae and monotony of daily living is unavoidable, and setting it aside to spend time with those we love most is not just preferable but essential for creating deep, lasting human bonds. But we are also called to be stewards of those entrusted to our care, and stewardship means laying down one’s time, energy, and bandwidth (and maybe even the overwhelming desire to drop everything and squeeze them) to allow these people to flourish under our care.
Perhaps dying to our desire to be everything to everyone, to suck every last piece of their childhood and keep it stored in our hearts, is part of the sacrifice we make for them here on earth. Perhaps the devil does want us to fear what will happen if we can’t envelop them, body and soul, and hold onto them forever—and perhaps mourning for the times we had to “do” instead of “be” for them stems from an earthly and not eternal perspective.
We want to absorb every second, every memory, here on earth because each of these beautiful moments is a foretaste of Heaven where, in some inestimable way and with God’s grace, we will be even more deeply connected to our families in the Body of Christ than we were on earth. There, our memories will not fade, there will be no chores to do, and nothing can distract us from just “being,” with God and our brothers and sisters (and children) in Christ.
Ultimately, this is the real problem: We could never have enough of them. I could ignore my work and spend every day with my husband, and if he should die first, I would wish I had done more. I could shirk all of my domestic duties and play games, read books, and build forts with my kids, and once they are out of the house leading lives of their own, I will always wish I had done more.
The guilt that tinges our memories and makes us wish we had done more to just hold on a little tighter reminds us that we are not meant for this world. Such a greater treasure awaits us, a realm with none of the burden and only unending joy. Of course, we should exercise prudence in determining how to best serve our families; sometimes, loving them well does mean delaying cutting the grass or organizing a closet in favor of a one-on-one moment with a struggling child. But in a very fallen world, unfortunately, labor is a necessary part of human existence, and God does call us to order our lives, both spiritually and physically.
When we find ourselves overwhelmed as we reminisce about our families in simpler times and earlier years, let’s try not to dwell on where we could have done more. Instead, let’s focus our energy toward prayer and behaviors that strengthen our resolve to be faithful to the Lord. Instead of dwelling too long on the past, let’s look to our eternal future, teaching and modeling the faith for our children so we can be together in Heaven. By loving our families well while we are on earth, we can hope for eternal domestic bliss with the Trinity and Communion of Saints, where each moment will be more than enough.