It is hard to put into words what goes through your head when, in the span of a single weekend, you see the kids you used to babysit and/or were privileged enough to watch (more or less depending on the kid) grow up and show their colours.  To watch them dearly love the same cousins with whom they tumbled with as pipsqueaks.  To hear the concerns or joys of their hearts and see them deal with those maturely.  To see them bless you and others with their conduct or attitudes.  To feel ancient when you watch these previous babies show off Sr. photos or talk about college or bring home special others.  To play volleyball with them and laugh our heads off at how awful we are.  To wish you lived close enough to watch them more/longer.  To see them build into your own children.  To paraphrase 3 John 1: There is almost no greater joy than to hear my sibling’s children are walking in truth.   To think that as great a joy as this is, won’t it be an even GREATER joy if the same is true of my children as young men and women.  To be spurred on to prayer and effort on behalf of my own that I might see similar things in them as grown up ‘kids’ in 15-20 years.  To stop and wonder: aren’t the 30’s a little young to be so nostalgic?  Becoming an aunt for the first time at 5 years of age and rapidly increasing my ‘auntness’ until there are 20ish of them apparently lends to early geriatric onset disorder?  So thanks, siblings, for making me old before my time… but making that more palatable by giving me super cool neices and nephews to love and enjoy as adults (or nearly so) and a few teens (or nearly so).  I’m just lucky my husband’s side (and maybe a couple on mine) granted me a few kiddos still young enough that I don’t have to feel too old all the time. 🙂

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