Wind chimes

I laid in bed last night thinking about my boys, as I often do as I'm drifting to sleep, and wondering how the time has passed so entirely too quickly.  Elijah turned 8 in July, which means he's nearly 1/2 done with his time under our roof if he follows the traditional age for leaving the home.  A sort of panic set in as I realized this and I could feel a painful knot form in my throat.  1/2 gone?!  How?!  
The boys and I were eating lunch today out on our back porch.  The air is cool now, even midday and today in particular it is wonderfully dry.  I sat back as the boys continued to eat and let the strong breeze blow through my hair.  It smells like spring in Wyoming - just nice cool, dry air with a slight hint of barnyard.  I have a wind chime that I've moved from place to place with us and it continues to be a soothing reminder of the beautiful childhood I had.  At my childhood home in Powell in hung from the eves over our back deck.  I sat and listened with my eyes closed.  I remembered summer afternoons on that tall back deck, listening to the sprinklers, the crickets and meadow larks - the most beautiful of sounds.  Occasionally there was the sound of screaming mule to add a bit of humor into the moment.  One cannot help but laugh at those poor beasts and their ridiculous bugle.  
I remembered eating french silk frosting on saltine crackers after school and sitting in the late afternoon sunlight on the front porch with my mama - peering off at heart mountain in the distance and watching the swarms of gnats cluster over the glistening golden horse in the pasture across the road.  We could hear the sound of his tail as he frantically swished them away.  I remember the sound of the breeze through the aspen tree that sat front and center in our front yard and how it sounded like being in the mountains.   I remember hearing the sound of the water in our irrigation ditch trickle through during the growing season, and the sound of footsteps on the gravel road in front of our house.  The smell of lilac bushes was beautifully sweet and filled the air.  The fresh strawberries and rhubarb growing rampant in our garden were a delightfully refreshing snack - all I had to do was bend down and pick - warm still, from the sun, a burst of flavor during a break from playing in the alfalfa fields that lined two sides of our property.  In the spring the aroma of the Russian Olive tree blossoms was unmistakable and joy inducing.  I link these all to the ting of those precious wind chimes, that are aging gracefully and continue to adorn our home with their ever pleasant sound.  

I sat there drinking in all the memories and thought about a verse that I often recite to myself as I live life alongside my four little boys.  
1 Corinthians 13:1 - If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. 
It always goes hand in hand, in my mind, with another verse.  2 Peter 2:3 - shepherd the flock of God that is among you, exercising oversight,a not under compulsion, but willingly, as God would have you;b not for shameful gain, but eagerly;3 not domineering over those in your charge, but being examples to the flock.
The question in my mind as I listened to the sounds of their giggles and the ding of the chimes - what sound do I make to them?  What will they grown up and remember.  Will they remember a soft spoken, gentle, quiet spirited mother who's voice could be compared to that of a precious antique wind chime, or am I more of a noisy gong or clanging cymbal, being domineering over them with compulsive behavior?  I fear that all too often it's the latter.  The sound of those beloved wind chimes is intrinsically linked to memories of my mother.  No mother is perfect and no child has all rose colored memories of their mamas, but my memories of my mom are primarily a delight to think upon.  Just a few weeks ago we were able to have a very long face time conversation and work through some of the memories that are painful.  We wept together and prayed together and there was much forgiveness.  It was a huge weight off both our shoulders that was a very long time coming.  This time with her made me relish the beautiful memories of childhood even more.  

I want to be a perfectly pitched wind chime.  I want to be the sound of crickets and the breeze in aspen trees on summer nights.  I want to be the sunset over Heart Mountain and the whistle of the Meadow Larks as they sung their tunes effortlessly from thin wires on the electric fences.  I want to be the taste of still warm, sun ripened strawberries and excitingly tart rhubarb, mixed all together in a parched mouth.  I want to be these things to my boys.  I want to shepherd my flock with love, not to be remembered as a clanging cymbal that drowned out all else, frustrating them and exasperating them.  I want to have love that warms my boy's hearts when they think back to their childhood,  not being domineering over them for my own shameful gain of being in charge.  I want to sing to their hearts when they lean back recalling what childhood was like.

Jesus, help me be wind chimes.