Sitting near the back of the room I listened to a talk about freedom. The speaker mentioned the phrase Perpetual creation. The notion settled on my awareness as if it planned to stay. Perpetual creation. 

When you go to a church camp there are predictable pleasantries that pop up like mushrooms in the forest. 

"How are your children?" is one. 

Having fielded that conversation starter a few times in the last few days I noticed that mothering is a kind of perpetual creation. It is never done. 

There were many years when I carried a baby on each hip and kept their socks on and their questions answered. But those days are over. All of my nine offspring put on their own socks. I watched the women at camp who cared for their clusters of children graciously. Perpetually. They responded to each child's whim now with hugs, now with distractions, now with a banana. Creatively. 

The speaker was elaborating about God, not mothers, yet these women gave me visible evidence of continuous care. Giving birth is a Big Bang. But then the real labor begins. 

My marriage to John began on a sunny summer morning atop a hill, but the task of  creating a partnership is perpetual. 

I'm grateful. I wouldn't want it to be over just as it began.