Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Summertime, summertime, sum-summ-summertime….
The American days are singing past me! I can hardly believe we are reaching the crescendo already. It seems like yesterday I was watching the Maestro tap the baton that sent me leaving on a jet plane from Moscow to Chicago.
And now? The visa is approved and received. The return trip tickets are reserved. The clothes packing awaits.
With a little over two weeks remaining, there are a lot of loose ends to tie up. I fear the unraveling of the whole kit-and-kaboodle because it seems there just aren’t enough hours left! Who knew a rummage sale would be so much work?
Thankfully I have friends who see the opportunity for visiting and working in the same sentence. My new renters want to buy my house and so I am selling or storing or otherwise getting rid of everything I’ve collected. Pooling resources, they have helped me to sell off bits and pieces of unnecessary stuff. Having friends to laugh me through the process has made it much more pleasant.
In between all of that I have tried to stuff as many angel baby kisses as possible into the summer. Like a picnic basket opened on the lawn, their joy fills the corners of my days. It’s impossible to catalog the moments we’ve shared.
Eli making up a song with lyrics like, “I love my Bapka! She is the best one! She is my Bapka and I love her!” I’m sure it’s going to be an award winner.
Anna’s dance performance was also pretty stellar. My kitchen became the stage she burst upon with the title, “I sewed something! I sewed something! Look! I made this!” Her bouncing accentuating each word as she showcased the newly fashioned pillow in her victorious hands.
Not to be outdone, Mavrik’s understated growing up graced the turning calendar pages. Seeing him playing and praying with new friends at camp was memorable. “This is my friend Dylan.” Little did the new friends know their parents grew up together sharing the same kind of memories because their grandparents are long-established friends. I love how God intertwines our stories.
And then Arthur. My king. Circling his bike back to wait for me with the disclaimer. “I will ride next to you. You’re my grandma and I have to take care of you. It’s my job.” I’m not sure who gave him that crown, but I will gladly let him wear it.
I live on the cusp of two lives it seems. I am looking forward to working in Moscow another year, but hang on to each touch in America. I wish I could mix them together. To share the wonders of each with the other.
But each song has its own measures, its own musicians and must be played one at a time. For today, I am soaking up the notes drawn upon the staff. I listen to its cadence and hum along.
Thanks, God, for the music of life.