I’m in a flurry of tidying.

When my brain feels clogged with all the tasks and things that didn’t quite get completed due to the usual interruptions of four children, I tend to run around the house like a madwoman putting everything back together the way *I* think it’s supposed to be (spoiler alert: my way is the right way, obviously). I rush into my son’s room to open the curtains, because every bit of natural light is medicine to my soul in these Minnesota winters, and I almost step on Lightning McQueen. You see, he is lined up with all his friends, neatly, on the black and white plaid rug in his room.

I can’t help but stop and admire this still moment. It may not be living or breathing, but this perfectly-arranged row of tiny cars is evidence of the precious life and soul of my son. I take a moment and consider that what was irritating clutter a moment ago, is actually a lovely creation of his imagination.

And so I take a photo.

I don’t know about you, but the moments I really stop and see what all the clutter actually is, I’m moved to gratitude. Gratitude for this husband of mine who works incredibly hard, and feels safe enough here at home to breathe, rest, and leave his keys anywhere his heart desires. I’m grateful my children see this creaky home with dingy baseboards as a place to let their imaginations run wild—Perler beads, scraps of paper, and loom rubber bands sprinkled everywhere like confetti. They pull their socks off while they pile on the couch every day to watch Full House with me because they know that home is a place they can be safe and comfortable, right this very second. Stacks of papers filled with evidence of hard work and creativity pile high in the laundry room, and are proudly taped to their walls. Their library books snuggle up to mine near the couch—an answer to a common prayer of mine—that the good things they learn from my example outweigh the bad.

These inanimate objects, exactly where they are, tell the story (of an age-old cliché we all roll our eyes at) that we really will miss this some day. The little corners of our home and treasures under the couch tell the story of a life filled with very loved children—where they create, learn, love, and rest.