She sat down on the couch, a few feet away from me. Dinner and evening chores were behind us. I purposely sat on the family room couch rather than dragging my tired body upstairs to prep for bed, in hopes of connecting with either of my daughters. And one of them came. After the relational challenges of this past winter and spring, it was no small thing that she came.
"Want to listen to the Witch of Blackbird Pond?" I asked.
"Yes!" She exclaimed.
Audible books seem to be reaching across the relational abyss for short moments.
I pressed play.
Over the next ten minutes, she slowly inched her way in my direction. With my biological children, couch time was our normal. In fact they clamored during those early homeschool years for my lap. My lap might have been the one thing I allowed them to fight for. Sometimes two piled high on me. The other snuggled up to my side. One big snuggle fest. There wasn't inching. There was no reserve.
With my youngest daughters, I'm strikingly aware of the slightest movement in my direction.
An inch toward me can take my breath away. She kept inching closer and closer. Then in one final move, she was shoulder-to-shoulder, leg-to-leg beside me. And it took my breath away.
The unexpected does that sometimes.
When movement toward me is so labored, terrifying, challenging...inches feel like they span miles.
And I'm more grateful for the rare "inching" than I ever imagined I could be.