Yet some things can't be measured. Yet they matter just the same.
Isaac. Eleven years old. Tall and lean like a blade of grass blowing in the wind. All elbows and kneecaps, baggie shorts and flat brimmed hats. He stands next to a few boys his age and towers over them, yet others dwarf him with their broad chest and muscular arms, their thick legs and man feet. He is at that age where change seems to happen overnight and the school pictures look like a mismatched collection of kids from many different ages.
He was telling me a story last week. He was excited and his hands were gesticulating as he's seen mine do all these eleven years. His voice was rising at the end of the sentence as he gulped a quick breath to continue speaking.
And then it happened. Just a flash. A glimpse. He made this expression and I saw him, my Isaac boy, but also him, the man he'll be. It was over, the moment passed, and I think my face fell in renewed recognition of this light speed passage of time. Time that I am so beyond honored and delighted to be a part of, but that I am also so beyond confused as to how the clock has ticked so many ticks since I first held that boy and professed my love in all the words I could muster up. I tried. I really, really tried, yet none of those words even touched the depths of my love for him. It is an easy love that will stay with him for all the days, all the nights, all the mistakes, all the triumphs. It is a complicated love that will ache when he aches and burn with anger when he burns, want to protect him from the harsh winters of life, but instead arm him with a giant, wool parka to make his own way through those winters.
There's no place in the baby book for those moments. Those moments you see the future and it fills you with excitement and fear and joy and dread. Those moments that quietly make up a life.
What moments, quiet or noisy, are you celebrating today?