All three of us, my boys and me, joined the eager crowd at church this morning to receive the annual blessing of the backpacks.
It was a beautiful blessing.
Or, what I heard of it, anyway. I admit, sometimes I miss a word (or six) as I wrangle one or the other or both of the children. But I remember it was beautiful, and meaningful, and hopeful.
I remember reflecting on the significance of my own backpack as we all gathered around the altar. How it once carried diapers during its role as diaper bag, and how, soon, it will carry my books as it transforms back into the role for which it was originally created.
For me, this simple bag holds so much more than its contents.
As I prepare to begin seminary, with my
diaper pack strapped tight in that comfortable and familiar place on my back, I will carry the weight of what that bag has carried. The weight of two of the most excruciatingly wonderful years of my life. The weight of an exhausted stay-at-home mom who toted those twins, and that bag, from here to there and back again. And again and again.
The weight of the texts which will soon fill it as I begin to study the book and as I begin to find my else.
I am so grateful for this bag. For its history. For the memories of what has filled it. For the dreams of what will.
And into this next phase, and through this new door, I will carry it, carry them, with me.