My Goodness, I love you.

As we end the first year of life together (outside the womb, of course), I want to capture a few memories with Briggs. Memories that I hope bring him as much joy as they bring me.

Briggs,

This first year has been tear-filled in so many ways (and not just your adorable pouty tears when I reluctantly set you down to accomplish a task). I teared up at nearly every major milestone you accomplished, from rolling over, to sitting up, to standing on your own. And my tears reflect the sheer magnitude of God's design for you. I marvel at the way (just today!) you pulled yourself to standing, let go for a few gleeful seconds (while waving your arms and giggling), and promptly landed on your butt. And then you did it again and again. This fleeting moment is beautiful, because you are learning to trust. You are gaining a sense of confidence. You are becoming a little boy who is eager to explore your world. And this brings me to tears, for so many good reasons.

I have a million memories from this year that I'd like to preserve for all time. And so, I will attempt with a few...

The way we cuddle when you are tired, you nuzzling into my neck as if that's where you've always belonged. The way you squirm and release ecstatic giggles when I tickle your feet and under you arms. The way you instantly smile when I wink in your direction, letting me know you feel my love. The way you explore EVERYTHING with your mouth, the cabinet hardware (as I type!), every toy you've ever encountered, mommy's fingers (and toes), your fingers and toes, the occasional stray post-it note, the doors and windows and mirrors and vents and gates and on and on.

The way you army crawl when you've got a snack or toy that's too precious to leave behind. The way you mimic our actions and click your tongue, shake your head, wrinkle your nose, grin from ear to ear. The way you incessantly desire to tap the keys of my keyboard, even when I give you a full-sized version of your own. The way you eat everything we give you, then ask for more as you flail your chubby little legs. The way we rub noses and hold hands and give high fives, just because we can. The way you lift one eyebrow with such expression whenever your interest is piqued. The way you love interacting with other babies, but get a little shy around the bigger kids. The way you choose, in a sea of child toys, to rearrange the plastic plates and kitchen towels in the cupboard.

The way you squawk in response to our voices and carry on your version of a convincing conversation. The way you dance only to certain songs, bobbing your head and bending your knees. The way you delight in seeing your daddy as he returns home from a day of work. The way you pose for pictures with your dimples and charm. The way you share your love with so many others, spreading cheer by simply being you.

You, Briggs, are a delight of a son, and as I think of you growing into who God has created you to be, I realize these precious baby moments will soon be a distant memory. Today, little one, I remember for you the ways we share love in this moment, so they might inspire our love for tomorrow.

In this final week of your first year here on earth, Briggs, I say with all the warmth in my heart, "My goodness, I love you!"

I'm playing the long game.

Over the past few weeks I've found myself repeating this phrase within different scenarios.

I'm playing the long game in marriage, allowing the deep love I feel for my spouse to overcome any temporary (and usually silly) differences we encounter. I love being married, and I know that playing the long game means every once in awhile giving up what I want in the moment for the sake of our lasting relationship.

I'm playing the long game in my career as a pastor, determined not to let the endless cycle of visitations, newsletters, meetings, liturgy and sermon prep (and general sense of always being "on call") to overwhelm me. I love being a pastor, I love my congregants, and I recognize that playing the long game means counteracting "burn out" by setting personal limits and realistic expectations.

I'm playing the long game in my friendships, doing my best to cherish the people who know me well. Over the years I have been richly blessed with rewarding companions, and I realize that playing the long game involves nourishing these relationships- if only occasionally- by caring and conversing about what truly matters.

I'm playing the long game in being a mother, making myself available to Briggs on his terms at the moment. Earlier today I sat down to read a bit from a pastoral book (the most relaxing part of my "day off"). About two paragraphs in, this cute little 11 month-old boy makes a beeline for Momma's lap. I couldn't help but chuckle as I recalled only getting about two paragraphs read during my previous attempt with this book. And since reading a book with tear-able pages is not an option while cuddling Briggs, I put the book down and concentrated on being a mom. I know that playing the long game as a mother means establishing a secure bond of trust with Briggs now, so he will be confident in exploring the world later (at which point, I might get to read more than 2 paragraphs, maybe).

And if I stop to consider what it is that best allows me to play the long game as a wife, pastor, friend, and mom, I realize it's consistent and meaningful prayer.

Prayer allows me--almost demands from me--time to reflect. Prayer gives linguistic substance to what I think and feel and believe. And because I'm the type of person who thinks out loud, prayer actually helps me form my perspectives. Prayer gives me a momentary chance to reflect on how I might best "play the long game" in my many (simultaneous) vocations.

Here's one of my favorites: "Jesus, thank you for this life; help me live it to the fullest. Amen."

And here's one I should maybe begin praying: "Jesus, help me play the long game. Amen."