There has been a one-eighty in responsibility.  Back in the nineties I was the one to pack for five kids in preparation for a week at Yosemite, and peel through wrinkled maps to decipher the directions. The ruckus from kids behind me who were bored of travel made for a lively distraction from the scenery. John had reserved a campsite and masterminded setting up the tent. There were no contributions toward expenses from the children, since none of them had jobs. It was an adventure, especially when a bear broke through a car window to reach a peanut butter lid. When we drove home the younger ones slept in the back seats.  I did six loads of laundry.

But the shift to the present is dramatic. Our daughter-in-law booked the Airbnb, and our daughter drove the five of us to Boston. Others made their own travel arrangements. I packed only for myself, and there were no squabbles. Most of the occupants of the car stayed quiet during my son's call with coworkers from the west coast or Madrid. I forget which.

I will cheerfully pay my slender share of the expenses, but no more than that. Our children are employed. I even nodded off in the car on the way home. 

I cherish the memory of that trip in California. I was momming on all cylinders.  Yet there is another sensation to be found in being a passenger. I was taken care of.

At the risk of deifying my offspring I felt like this is how it must be to give up control to God. He does seem to have enough resources, and knows the directions. It behooves me to resist whining about how long it takes. 

Love, Lori