As I write this, my two oldest kids are sharing a bowl of popcorn and a game. My youngest is playing contentedly with a glo-worm on the floor, and my husband is napping on the couch. It’s Saturday, a rare one when we are both off of work and all five of us are together. Though this moment in our lives would make a nice Norman Rockwell painting, my days aren’t always this easygoing. I do my share of “hurry up, we’re late!” and “I’m too tired to deal with this right now.”
But today… today we’ve savored a slow, relaxing time together. I think of all the time I’ve spent running and rushing, wishing and hoping, and shooting for goals, making the sale and putting out the fires and carrying what sometimes feels like the weight of the world. I realize that all those things I try to accomplish are important. Yes, they are important. But there’s important, and there’s important TO ME.
I hope in the end my life will count for something important. More than that, I hope it counts for the things, the ones that are important to me. This home, this family, being a great wife and mother, carrying on the good name my mother and father gave me. That’s more than important. It’s important to me.
So I have a new question to ask myself as I prioritize my crazy life. Is it important? Is it important TO ME? Wonder if I’ll change my mind about what’s on the top of my list?