Enjoying the sunset

"Sunsets, like childhood, are viewed with wonder not just because they are beautiful but because they are fleeting." — Richard Paul Evans It seems I am often reminded of this wonderfully accurate quote when I look at my daughters, ages 11 and 7. My oldest, Isabelle, has always been mature beyond her age, but it's in fast drive now. The year 2028, her graduation year, once seemed so far away. With 2022 on the horizon, it all of a sudden seems as though it's bearing down. Our kids — all of our kids — have been through a lot the past three years, with school shutdowns, activities canceled and general uncertainty. And while mine have weathered this storm as well as they can, it certainly has affected them. One of the unsaid conditions of our move to Ohio — pouring into our children — has been amplified. In that spirit, Betsy innocently hatched a plan while going for a casual walk in a Columbus-area metropark in between games of a soccer tournament for our oldest. Youth sports can be both exciting and emotional, and we were dealing with both that particular weekend. Betsy felt like the girls, and I, could use a reset. She pointed to a late October weekend where she, a teacher, had a two-day in-service/parent conferences, but the kids did not have school. "Why don't you take the girls on a trip?" she suggested. Travel ranks just below family in the list of things I enjoy, so I got immediately excited. "I've always wanted to go to New York City. What about Chicago? Indianapolis would be fun." As other travelers know, dreaming is the most fun part. As reality set in, we knew that we'd have a finite amount of time to fit this in. Isabelle had practice that she didn't want to miss. Juliet had dance. So we settled on a couple of days spent closer to home. I took the girls to Imagination Station in Toledo for the first time, and we bopped around for four hours, from exhibit to exhibit, Juliet's face lit up in wonder. We did some crafts. We had some milkshakes. It was a wonderful time. Later, while Juliet stayed behind for dance, Isabelle and I scooted over to Cleveland, where we spent a day on the town. We hit up a local coffee shop, took photos of ourselves near two of the script Cleveland signs, hit balls and competed at TopGolf, and visited a couple museums. We capped the day by chowing down on some amazing tacos. We were back in time to hang out with Sister and Mom and have a family game night. While we were able to whet our adventurous whistles, the most fun was not had doing things that cost money. It was found chatting on the highway or while seated at a table, the girls talking about angles of their life — school, sports, friends — with me listening more than speaking. My pastor once said something in a sermon that has had a profound impact on me. "How do kids spell love?" he asked. "T-I-M-E." For kids, it doesn't matter what we do — grand plan or not. It only matters that we do it — spend time with our kids. When we do, we should not get caught up in the moment and take the time to slow down and to listen, really listen. Some days, when I drive home from work, the sky is open, the road is open, and the conditions are just right. The bright sun retreats behind the endless corn and soybean fields, leaving a purple, orange and red show in its wake. If I hit those nights just right, I smile and soak it all in. "This is beautiful," I think. Spending time with my girls this past weekend was a moment like this. The conditions were just right for an awesome painted sunset. I hope it made them feel just a little more secure in their childhood. I know it made me feel more secure in my role as parent. Time is ticking, and the clock waits for nobody. The world is difficult out there on the horizon, beyond those fields. Childhood is fleeting, my friends, but the sunset is so, so beautiful when you take the time to let it fill you up. Speer is the publisher of The Advertiser-Tribune of Tiffin, the Review Times in Fostoria and The Findlay Courier. He can be reached at jeremyspeer@thecourier.com or jspeer@advertiser-tribune.com.