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  • Writer's pictureAmanda Crews


From the Hope Writer's January Writing Challenge: Slow.

Sometimes seasons, in every sense, roll on by. Winter turns into spring, and spring into summer, and summer into autumn, and the cycle repeats itself. Some feel longer than others. Each season has a purpose, and they all promote the shedding and death of old things and the beginning and growth of new. It’s easy to think about the seasons of the year like this, but can we think just as easily about the seasons we face in motherhood?

The constant correction: “No biting!” “Eat your food.” “Use your manners.” “Keep your pants on.” “Wash your hands.” “Brush your teeth.” “Don’t write on the wall.” “Stay in bed.” “Do your homework.” “Be home by 10:00.” The list is endless, and it’s different for everyone. But one season of “No biting” turns into a season of “Eat your food,” which turns into a season of “Don’t say that word,” which eventually turns into a season of “Make sure you call me or text me every day!” You get my point.

As slow as these seasons of constant correction are, we need to realize that old things are dying, and new things are beginning. We need to make sure we stop and focus on the new things growing in our babies and in us. Just as much as we’re correcting them, they’re correcting us. Slowly. Churning us into more loving, joyful, patient, gentle, and kind beings, while they are turning into more loving, gentle, kind, civilized little humans.

Although the time spent in these trenches deceives us, and each season feels like it drags on, the reality is that just as soon as one season starts and ends, a new one comes along. So, walk through the hard seasons - slow and steady - look for the new leaves growing as the old ones die, and appreciate the time that we have these little people in our homes, in our care, and in our arms, because although it seems soooooo slow some days, the reality is it’s slipping right through the cracks of our fingers, and one day we’ll be left standing in our own quiet, clean, and clutter-free homes, longing for the slow seasons the trenches brought us.

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