What Remains

I have had this poem taped to my fridge for years now.  It's from a Focus on the Family publication.
Every now and then I need to read it again!

What Remains

by Joanne Heim

If I spend my days building skyscrapers with LEGOs and creating relationships with other moms at Starbucks, but have not love, I am only the siren of of the kids' ride-on fire truck.

If I have the gift of knowing which child attempted to flush the Hot Wheels down the toilet and which one pushed her sister, and if I have faith that somehow we'll survive life's emergencies, but have not love, I am nothing.

If I save all my box tops for school and give outgrown clothing to the local shelter, and if I surrender my body to stretch marks and under-eye circles, but have not love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient when someone isn't ready to use the big-girl potty.  It is kind when my husband has a hard day.  It doesn't envy my neighbor who drives the new sport-utility vehicle I can't afford.

It is not rude, snapping at my spouse or children when things don't go my way.  It is not easily angered at perceived or real injustices.

It always protects the smallest, sweetest family confindences; always trusts God to provide for my children's needs; always hopes in the freshness of tomorrow and the bright future of family; always perseveres amid hardship and doubt.

Where there are sleepless nights, they shall end.  Where there are diapers, Little League, and dioramas built from shoe boxes, they will cease.  Where there is knowledge of baby-care trends, discipline strategies, and boy-girl problems, it will pass away.

Now these three remain: faith, lived out in my daily circumstances and instilled in my children; hope, of one day rejoicing with my family in heaven; and love, which covers a multitude of less-than-perfect moments.

But the greatest of these is love.  It is what remains. . . . long after I am gone.