One song. An old photo. One old toy from the bottom of a box…that’s all it takes to undo me sometimes.
I could be decluttering, walking to a nearby grocery store, or just sitting quietly with my tea when it happens. A familiar melody starts playing, one I used to hum with the kids, and suddenly, my throat tightens and my eyes sting. Or I’ll open an old album, or a facebook/phone memory and see a photo of chubby cheeks, messy hair, and toothless grins. In that moment, I’m right back there, hearing their laughter echoing through the house, feeling the weight of their little hands tugging at me, the warmth of their small bodies leaning in for hugs that always seemed to come just when I needed them most.
Even an old toy, a beloved stuffed animal, a Lego piece, drawings/paintings on paper and smallish canvases, a doll with their baby shirt can make my heart ache. They’re not just objects. They’re time capsules, holding traces of tiny voices, endless “why’s,” and the kind of wonder that only children seem to have.
I know what Ecclesiastes 7:10 says: “Do not say, ‘Why were the old days better than these days?’ for it is not wise to ask that.” I understand it—really, I do. We’re meant to cherish the present, to see God’s blessings in each new day. And yet… I can’t help but look back with a tender sort of longing.
It’s not that I want to go back, exactly. It’s just that I miss the sweetness of those ordinary days that felt like they’d last forever. The chaos, the noise, the small hands reaching for mine—they were fleeting, and I didn’t know how fast they’d go.
Now, the house is quieter, everyone is a little bit older and busier, I hold onto those memories with both gratitude and ache. I know the past isn’t better than the present—it’s simply different. But still, part of me whispers, if only today felt a little more like yesterday.
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