Legos on the Sidewalk
My middle child turned five last week (cue all the feels) and his one gift request was Legos. Lots and lots of Legos.
The other day he was building one of his new sets at my parents’ house next door when I told him it was time to come home. But at some point along the route, he lost a piece. By the time we realized it, it was nearing bedtime, so I told him we would look in the morning.
The next day, I had completely forgotten about the missing Lego and, given his silence on the subject, assumed he had as well. But after preschool, as I’m taking Willa back into the house to feed her, River reminds me of my promise to help him find the missing piece. I utter a quiet sigh to myself and we march back out the door and begin retracing the steps between my parents’ house and ours.
“What color is the Lego, bud?”
R: “dark green.”
Awesome. We are looking for a tiny green Lego in our front yard. Odds are not in our favor.
Willa is starting to get fussy at this point and I have had a day, after a string of sleepless nights. I’m not going to win any mom awards today, I decide. And I tell River we will have to look again later, secretly hoping he forgets and moves on to a new set.
I’ve been wrestling with hearing God’s voice, and honestly feeling a little bit like He isn’t seeing me.
What he doesn’t know (but is likely written all over my face) is that I have been battling extreme exhaustion and my mental state is hanging on by a thread. I tried to utilize the drive to his preschool as the prime opportunity for a good cry sesh, but I didn’t even have the energy. I’ve been wrestling with hearing God’s voice, and honestly feeling a little bit like He isn’t seeing me. I know these thoughts are categorically untrue, but two weeks of sleeping in two hour chunks begins to mess with your headspace.
As I’m standing there in the driveway holding Willa and just staring at my feet, something catches my eye. A smooth, dark green crescent shaped Lego sits just to the right of my foot.
“Bud. Look down.”
The excitement in his voice as he scoops up the piece and hurries in the house is no match for the exhale of my spirit.
“Thank you, God.” I utter and follow him inside to nurse my hungry four month old.
This moment marks a notable change in my mood for the remainder of the afternoon. I’m still utterly exhausted. I still have a hundred questions for God. It’s still an offensive 85 degrees in late October. Nothing about my life or circumstances has drastically changed. But, for the first time in a while, I feel seen.
Like that grass green Lego piece that was sure to never be found, I’m reminded that He who counts the stars, calls them each by name.
And not one of them is missing.
