i think this is why they say its hard to watch them grow up...

Many wizened and experienced parents will probably be able to more aptly explain to you a phenomenon I recently experienced. It’s Sunday night and our family is at church, waiting to take part in a community meal. Everyone mills about talking with one another. The kids’ play with one another and the fellowship hall becomes an almost endless stretch of active running space. It’s not a very large room, but to them it is more than sufficient. The stage up front—more like a very high platform—is packed out with several small tables and chairs. In the times before meals and after morning services, this dais acts as a stand-in for tree-fort, high-rise building and sweltering Amazon jungle…all at the same time. Maia has well passed the point where we are able to let her run through the hall and climb up on the stage—her favorite spot to play. As I stand on the main floor chatting, waiting for our pastor to say grace, I look over toward the small platform to see what Maia is doing. She stands next to a table—the chair pulled out behind her—the only child on the florescent light saturated stage. Then she looks shyly, but longingly, at the older kids at play on the floor below. And suddenly she places her palms on the edge of the table, fingers curled under the top, and bends at the waist, flopping onto the table belly first. She smiles hopefully, her eyes trained once more on the other children. She hungers to understand them, to jump with the strength of a spry six year old. And before I can understand what is happening, I am nearly knocked off my feet by a strange mix of emotions. Joy, sadness, sympathy and love twist together in a split second of time, frustrating my comprehension. But my recollection of that night brings back the same sensation with an awkward, un-aged force. And I realize that it is joy at her delight, sadness at the sudden onslaught of independence, sympathy for the relational hindrances and, finally, love for her that causes the disarray in my heart. Little Maia is growing up. And—as with every child—it is happening muchmuchmuch too fast. She grows without any directive from her parents. She grows without regard for the dangers of growing up. She grows with the veracity of a thirsty animal, seeking out a mountain brook. She grows with the hope of God’s children and the selfishness of Adam’s race. But most importantly she grows, in spite of herself, as a child of Grace.