It was just another fall afternoon. Kids napping. Roast thawing. Dust piling high on my hand-me-down coffee table. Earlier that morning I'd popped both kids in the double stroller and headed four blocks north and six blocks west to our small town library. Our mission? To check out some books to read to our five-year-old daughter. Peter Rabbit. Pooh and friends. And her very favorite Papa Small.
And so with big sis in the back seat of the stroller keeping eye on her nearly two-year-old baby brother in front, we set off on that crisp October afternoon. After checking out our books and grabbing some free colorful stickers, we left to return to our tiny brick home.
I was in a mad mama rush that day. I just couldn't wait to get the kids down for their naps and then use the time to catch up on all the dusting and cooking and bill-paying waiting to be done. And that junk drawer I'd been meaning to sort.
But Mackenzie and Mitchell had other plans. As we rounded the familiar corner where Oak Street meets Main, my kids spied a glorious sight. A nearly 100 year old oak tree sporting its fall finest, showing off in shades of ruby red and sunshine yellow.
"Ooohh. Tree. A color tree!" said baby Mitch. "Mommy!" Kenzie added. "Can we take some leaves home and do crafts? Please mom. They're so pretty!"
But my mind was elsewhere. I barely noticed the display of God's color because I was too busy racing to my next responsibility.
[Read the rest of the article at The Better Mom.]