By Kelly Odom 
It’s been a hard day. One of those days where everything feels loud. We are renovating our house—it’s time. Actually, it’s way past time. The amount of time that makes you wonder how you lived like this for so long. Twenty years ago, I bought a refrigerator I found on Craigslist for $200. The icemaker didn’t work. The water dispenser was purely decorative. But I babied that thing through two decades of family dinners and midnight snacks. Same with the stove. When my son was three, he climbed upon the stove to retrieve a ball I had confiscated earlier that day. The stovetop cracked, one eye gone. Twenty years, I coaxed that 3-eyed stove into “one more day.” So yes. It. Is. Time. But the timing, well, it couldn’t be worse. Because while my house is being torn apart and rebuilt, my heart is doing the same.
My son starts college in six days.
Do we have everything we need for the big move-in day? Not even close. I think I have a mattress pad, which he didn’t even ask for, and a backpack. I tried my very best to get him to pick out a comforter. He looked at me like I had just suggested a lace canopy.
“Why do I need that? I will literally never use that,” he said.
And after consulting with several other members of the male species, I quickly learned he’s probably right. What I think is important, him—not so much. I had this vision, this pre-college shopping trip vision, where we would go pick out a desk lamp and curtains, decide on a color scheme, grab 7 Brew Coffees, and come home with bags of goodies and matching bins. What actually happened? Me sitting on my couch ordering stuff on Amazon and praying it gets here in time.
What mattered to him wasn’t thread count or bathmats. It was time. Time spent hanging out with his friends before they all scatter. Time spent with family, ensuring we are still having our Fourth of July picnic. Tonight, he took it upon himself to coordinate one last Bible study with his buddies before the BIG DAY. That’s where his heart is, and I feel so blessed that this is where his priorities lie. Not in Target runs, but in connections.
So, when it is 8 p.m. on a weeknight and sheetrock dust is floating down the hall, I need to stain the baseboard in the laundry room, and pick out a faucet that must arrive in three days because my countertop will be here Thursday, but my son asked to go to the driving range . . .
We go.
When he wants to have one last family cookout before he leaves . . .
We make it happen.
Because this stuff—the renovations, the chaos, the endless decisions—they can wait.
I have six days left before he ventures out. It’s too late for the last-minute panic of Did I do enough? Did I teach him enough? Did I show him the way?
There is only time to soak in the moments. To linger at dinner a little longer. Stay up a little later than normal. To watch him become the man I prayed he would be. Those years spent praying he would be a leader and not a follower, praying for God to surround him with Christian friends and Godly examples, I am literally watching the seeds begin to bloom, just as a dear friend reminded me this week. So, I have to remind myself that while a house is being rebuilt, something far more precious is being launched.
To every parent standing in the dust and the countdown, I see you. And I promise, the launch is worth the mess.
by Carolyn Moore 
by Ranae Aspen 
