Before the Rhythm
Everything outside is yellow.
Not warm, golden sunlight kind of yellow.
The kind that settles into the air when you’re surrounded by acres and acres of pine trees and the pollen decides it owns the place.
The world feels heavy today.
Not because anything is wrong.
Because everything is about to start moving again.
This weekend was a break.
The kind you don’t fully realize you needed until you’re in it.
Saturday morning started fast.
We meant to leave by 8:00. Breakfast. Coffee. Ease into the morning before Jacob’s practice.
We all woke up just after 8:00.
So the house moved in a hurry.
Clothes.
Cleats.
Jimmy Dean pancakes on a stick.
Juice downed faster than it should be.
We made it one minute late.
Which, honestly, felt like a win.
What didn’t make it with us were hats.
After a week of nighttime practices, it didn’t even cross our minds.
So there we were, Saturday morning sun overhead, trying to play catch, and neither David nor I could really see.
Lesson learned.
Practice went really well.
Jacob earned player of the practice.
Most improved already.
Proud dad moment.
The kind you don’t say a lot about out loud, but you carry with you the rest of the day.
While we were at the field, my wife and Zoey were out stocking the local food pantry.
Something they’ve been doing consistently for the last two years.
Quiet work.
Important work.
The kind that doesn’t get announced but still matters deeply.
We all made it back home with a simple plan.
Keep the weekend quiet.
And for the most part, we did.
Later that day, a conversation from one of the other parents stuck with me.
Two rounds of lice.
Heads shaved.
A season-long precaution.
That was enough.
So we made a decision.
We went and got the boys their own batting helmets.
An hour drive.
Country roads.
Cool air in the van.
Quiet.
David slept most of the way.
He’s been pushing hard lately.
Late practices.
Changing schedules.
Growing up faster than I think any of us are ready for.
He needed that sleep.
We all did.
We stopped for an early dinner along the way.
Then finished the trip, picked up the helmets, and grabbed frozen custard for the ride home.
And on the way back?
Everyone slept.
David.
Zoey.
Even Jacob, after practice and a full day, couldn’t stay awake.
There’s something about a quiet car and winding roads that lets kids finally let go.
Saturday night shifted.
A family situation pulled me away from game night.
Nothing to unpack there.
Everything is fine.
It always will be.
Importantly, through all of that we still held our Saturday dinner.
Not perfectly.
Not elaborately.
But intentionally.
That time together matters to us.
More than most things.
Sunday stayed still.
We didn’t go anywhere.
We rested.
Tried to give each other space.
Tried being the operative word.
Four kids, one house, and the idea of quiet don’t always align.
But we slowed down.
We needed to.
And now it’s Monday.
The pollen is still hanging in the air.
Storms are on the way.
Baseball evaluations for David?
Maybe. They are still a few kids short to make two teams.
Waiting
Practices stacking up through the week.
Concession stand dinners.
Late evenings.
Early mornings.
Work already moving before the second cup of coffee.
Life picking up speed again.
And yet…
this weekend gave us something.
Rest.
Space.
A breath before the rhythm starts again and the pollen arrived.
There’s a difference between stopping and preparing.
From the outside, they can look the same.
Sleeping in.
Quiet days.
Cancelled plans.
But underneath, something else is happening.
Energy is being restored.
Connections are being reinforced.
Small moments are stacking into something stronger than they look on their own.
A rushed breakfast.
A missed hat.
A quiet car ride.
A proud moment on a field.
None of it feels big.
But it all matters.
Because when the week starts moving again, those are the things you carry with you.
Not the schedule.
Not the pressure.
The moments.
The people.
The feeling that you’re ready.
This is a grounded moment.
The work continues.
See you Wednesday.
