I will never be the writer I would have been had I not become a mother. Nor will I be the minister or professor I could have been if I hadn’t had to suffer the interruptions of a sulking child or the vibes of a brooding husband transmitted under the door of my study. I give up writing the book I might have written or the sermon I might have preached every time I wander out of my study and follow the smell of popcorn wafting in the air, follow it to the family room, where the rest of the family is watching The Lion King for the forty-second time. I’ll never be able to recapture the fine sentences swirling in my head, or the fresh revelations that were about to lay hold of me. But for the joy of getting down on the cold hardwood floor and singing, Hakuna Matata, I’ll settle for bits and pieces of revelation God sends my way, and see what, if anything, I can make of them when I can. Because today is today, and that’s all I have.
Today is today.