From the moment that I wake up, I feel an urge to get our our entire family outside. The weather forecast warns that we'll reach the upper nineties by afternoon. The morning, though already warm, is still manageable.
We walk a local nature trail. The kids point out puffy cattails, darting moths, shiny berries on a bush, and interesting bird calls. When we reach a low bridge over a small creek, we pause momentarily, look down at our reflections, see nothing else, and are ready to continue along.
But I pause. Hidden among the rocks and reeds is a trout. Mostly motionless, it faces upstream. I call the girls beside me, pointing to its spot in the water until they all find him. Within a minute, we notice another fish. Then Joel points out a cluster of tall grass growing in the water from which a half dozen of tiny fish dart in and out.
Sometimes I need to look more closely at ordinary things. A surface glance doesn't reveal the beauty or interest.
As we walk the rest of the trail, I pay attention. I notice the feel of my middle daughter's hand in my own. I watch how our youngest's hair curls more tightly and her cheeks flush as the heat and humidity rise. I listen to the enthusiasm in my oldest daughter's voice when she points out a flower, and I'm sure to match it when I respond. I pay attention to my husband, aware of how attractive he is, how warmly his eyes crinkle when he smiles.
I'm with my four favorite people in the world. We won't always have Saturday mornings like this.
I look more closely, and I'm so grateful for what I see.