The corner is quiet.

Warm, moist, steamy air escapes the cracked bathroom door as the scent of watermelon fills the room. A child luxuriates in the shower, as I put up my feet for a moment.

The physical and emotional toll of the day has wrung me out, and while there are many things that I wish to do like read, write, blog, take down the Christmas tree, process my day, all I can do is default to Facebook.

Not entirely true.

I can choose to sign out. To close up the screen. To lift journal and pen from their resting place.

I can write.

And I do.

I put to paper everything too precious to release into cyberspace. I recall the day and how God met me and where and through whom or what.

I remember the sacred spaces I inhabited and the painful places I faced and the many faces I encountered and those who encountered mine.

I wrestle through hardships and strong feelings of teens and tweens and pre-tweens, wondering if we will even make it through these trials. A text from a grown-up kid reminds me to hold on. That it’s worth it. They made it. We will make it.

I hide and engage and try and retreat. I return to my room wrung and reeling and muster the courage to show up once again.

When the timer goes off.