We make things. A million times a day.
We make beds and appointments and late night trips to the drugstore for ibuprofen.
We make time, even when there is none. For the school project. For the friend who needs to feel loved. For the little hands reaching up for help.
We make meals. Sometimes 3 different ones on the same night. Sometimes it’s a stop at a drive-thru. Sometimes it’s an all-day elaborate affair.
We make mistakes. We fumble and fall and fail. Sometimes we laugh them off. Sometimes we see the lesson, even if it stings. Sometimes we make things worse.
We make things better. We heal boo boos with a kiss. We give apologies and forgiveness and grace. We say “I love you.”
We make messes. Colorful ones with finger paints and glue guns. Sticky ones that cake the walls of our kitchens. Painful ones that wound hearts.
We make peace. With the way our life looks, even if that is different than what we had planned. With the imperfections in our relationships. With ourselves.
We make change. We make it with our voices, with our votes, with our willingness to accept there is more than answer, with our small acts of kindness.
We make our way, sometimes blindly, sometimes with confidence. We’re the people in charge now – of our jobs, of our homes, of the well-being of little people who think running with scissors is fun. So we navigate the foreign terrain with no map, guided only by the billions of moments that came before this one.
We make choices. We make decisions. We make our own fate.
We make things and we break things. A million times a day. Little and big things. Tangible things and metaphorical ones.
But they all add up to the simple fact that what we’re really making is a life.