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It was one of those days.

The snowman figurine dashed to the floor, one mittened arm lying broken, bent just the way flesh and bone would be, she thought, and Mama sadly scooped it up with her hands. She whose long blonde hair spun as she twirled and caught the snowman and sent him to his fate stood to the side, her hand covering a muffled, I’m sorry, Mama.

And from her knees, Mama smiled and said, You are more important to me than this snowman, precious! It’s all right- let’s see if we can fix it!

But before long (less than ten minutes), and not very far away (about ten feet as the crow flies), came another shattering sound. And this time, a ceramic mama holding her baby close lay in ruins, head and body severed cruelly; even the soft carpet couldn’t save her. The flesh and bone mama knew there was no repairing this one, no- but before her heart ran away with her thoughts, there was a touch on her shoulder, and a sniffle. I’m sorry, Mama!

And the mama turned and pulled gangly four-year-old, all legs and angles and shoulders, into her arms and said gently, and with a smile, It’s all right, Eliana. I love you more than this piece! And they fingered it sadly, together, and rose as one and walked deeper into the day.

And the mama was thankful, and rather proud, for the way she had handled those moments. For she felt thatfinally, she was getting the hang of

But suddenly, the lemonade spilled. An entire pitcher. Right before lunch was served, when food was hot and ready and four hungry souls circled the table in that pure happiness which comes from food that fills…

But the sugary drink left a sticky mess on the table, and she just knew it was dribbling between the cracks and puddling on the spare leaf underneath. Oldest boy fetched a towel and middle boy tried in his eight-year-old way to mop up the lemons life gave them and Mama caught her eyes across the table.

Sorry, Mama, she murmured, all hopeful and vulnerable and waiting.

And the mama tried to smile, tried to reassure, tried to fix all with the Jesus words she knew by rote but still required a channel to be pulled through heart and up and out… but she stayed silent, and smileless, and moved to the sink to wring out the rags.

She tried the words on for size. You are more precious to me than… I love you more than… what? And she knew why the words stayed stubbornly still, did not move from their place to take wing on her lips and fly to the child whose heart lay in her Mama’s hands.

Her time. That was the culprit. It wanted her full attention, did not want to be interrupted by silly spills and severed heads and broken mittens.

My time. Is that it? That’s what is holding me back? Is she more precious to me than my time? Do I love hermore than my time?

Oh, it’s easy to give time when it’s on our “clock”, so to speak. But when it’s taken from us? Well, then, Jesus words require an effort that a stay-at-home mama must hone with preemptive quiet time in the morning, with whispered prayers all day long, with nighttime knees-by-the-bedside talks with her Lord.

There at the sink, she heard her pride crack, and felt as if her own heart were made of ceramic and was severed from the head that now bowed in humility.

Yes. That was the answer. Yes. I love you more than my time!

Yes, just one of those days. A day when Mama learned a great lesson, when cracked heart and head moving of its own accord were lovingly placed back together, and they sat and drank deeply of a fresh pitcher of lemonade.

Their feet were kind of sticking to the floor, but that was beside the point. There were other things far more important.

Such as time, well spent.