After writing last night's blog about the fear about death, I realized that there is a healthy fear of the end of things that can spur me to action. A few days ago, I rushed eagerly down the path to Alex's preschool, hoping to catch another glimpse of the baby owls. The mama owl has made a nest in Glen Canyon each spring, but it seems like there are only a few short weeks between the first fuzzy baby sightings and the day (or night!) those babies fly away for good, on to their own destinies. Now each day that I see their dark faces peering out from the treetop, my heart soars. I know that my baby owl sighting days are numbered.
And so it is with my kids. The long days are mostly tempered by the knowledge that they are growing up, and fast. I cried when Ben turned four years old - three was still a baby, but four was marching on toward little boy (and march he did). And now my youngest Alex is weeks away from his fourth birthday - still having tantrums, still asking to be cuddled at night. But not for long.
And I've lost my hair, but I don't have cancer. And some dear friends of mine have had it, and some friends are newly diagnosed and just beginning to fight this beast. And so I am not afraid of the end of life, but I am grateful I don't have cancer, and I am grateful for this day. And I am also grateful for those things in life, that remind us, however painfully, that the end is not here - but it will come - and in the meantime, we've got to celebrate the stubble and health and cuddles that we got.
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