We’re on a scavenger hunt for lost items, the three of us while the man works. His mysteriously missing Ipod and her art canvas we bought weeks ago so she can sing with a brush of soppy color in summer’s sigh. I find the Ipod tucked under the couch cushions, the first place I look, along with the glasses he’s missing now for weeks.
While we scavenge through drawers and cabinets, I open the armoire where the games stack sideways, ask which games they want to take to the cottage and leave behind. And this opens the lid on “I’ve always wanted to play that game, but you wouldn’t let me” conversations.
They point to Cranium and Guesstures and Taboo and they are right, they’ve never played them because they weren’t old enough yet when they asked.
On the fourth of July, while I finish washing the last of dishes of raclette, she sets up Cranium on the coffee table and we team up gender. And while we act and draw and create with clay, laughter swirls acrobatic and I marvel over who they’ve become, these kids transforming into adults.
And isn’t this how most of life works? We want to play the game, know the highlights of our story before we are ready to read the instructions and understand how to play.
Skipping steps of the game only to capture an empty victory.
Only He knows when time marches ready for us to enter the next chapter of the story He pens called Life. And what if, in the meantime, He says, “Don’t open it yet, you’re not ready, just wait?”