I was recently asked to serve on a committee at our church. I think this is probably something that happens a lot as your kids get older and you become more invested in their faith walk and who is helping guide it. In other words, there's a sucker born every day.
Anyway, the day of our first committee meeting Parke was out of town, I had no babysitter and it was approximately 1000 degrees. Needless to say, we rolled up to the church 5 minutes late. Things were going well.
The sweet lady in the reception area offered to watch Gracie and Sam and directed me to the "parlor", where the rest of the group was already in session. Not familiar with that area of the church I asked for directions.
As it turns out, the parlor is a little area to the side of the church where they hold Boy Scout meetings and gather before weddings...and funerals. The last time I'd been in the parlor, with no presence of mind to ask what it was called or anything else for that matter, was just before Rip's funeral.
I am amazed as human beings how life is made up of so many moments like this. Moments where you are literally thrown into a room that holds some of the worst memories of your life and yet we smile, nod, pull out our pens, and get to work.
Everyone has a "parlor" or two or three. A road, a house, a hospital room where their lives changed forever. But somehow we keep moving. We keep showing up. We keep going.
What felt like much later the door cracked open and two slightly disheveled children were deposited back to me. Smiling and shy, and smelling damp and sweet - I couldn't help but wonder if there was a ghost of a girl 9 years before still somewhere in this parlor. Stuck wondering if she would ever get a moment just like this.