I’m four years old and I’m in the kitchen with my dad. It’s dark outside, so it’s close to bedtime, but I give my dad one of my dolls and ask him to play house with me. My dad loves me so much but playing anything besides catch with me is outside of his wheelhouse. Still, he awkwardly obliges. I pretend to be the mama doll and he pretends to be the daddy doll, right there in the kitchen standing by the sink. It lasts maybe 3 minutes but it imprints in my memory because, even in its awkwardness and absurdity, it is a moment filled with love and joy.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m eight years old and I crawl into my mama’s lap in the rocking chair. I’m getting too big to sit in her lap, but she lets me snuggle into her and rocks me anyway. I realize, even at 8, that this won’t last much longer. The rocking chair is a lot smaller than it used to be, and I’m getting older every day. For this moment, though, I still fit. I hug my mama and let her rock me.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m twelve years old and I’m sitting in the church balcony with a group of my friends. We’re singing along with the worship music, and I say a silent prayer. Jesus, flood this place. Let us feel you. My friend, Paige, looks at me with tears streaming down her face. “I feel Him. I feel Jesus in here.”
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m fifteen years old and I am in the Junior Miss pageant at my high school. I’ve never been in a pageant before, but I wanted to do it just to say that I did it. For the talent portion, I choose to sing/perform a piece from Chicago. My singing is mediocre at best, but when I finish rehearsing it in the living room in front of my parents and chance a look at my dad, he is wiping tears from his eyes. Tears of pride.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m eighteen years old, and I’ve been having consistent panic attacks for a month. I am crying on the bed with my mom next to me. We are holding hands and she is praying over me. She is speaking in tongues and quoting scripture. We are both crying. She quotes Isaiah 40:31, praying, “Thank you, Jesus, that Haley shall renew her strength. She shall mount up with INGS like WEAGLES.” For the first time in a month, I am laughing so hard I can’t breathe.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m nineteen years old, and I’m at Parris Island, SC, waiting to see my boyfriend, Chase, at his Marine boot camp graduation. It’s family day and I am in the stands, listening to some Marine drone on as I am staring at Chase, lined up perfectly with the others who recently received their EGAs. Finally, we are clear to find our Marines. I run to Chase and wrap my arms around him, crying and laughing. He’s lost so much weight, but I don’t care. All that matters is right here, right now.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m twenty years old. My dad has been sick for a few years and sometimes has difficulty walking, so I’ve asked my brother to walk me down the aisle. We’re waiting in his van next to the beach entrance. The rest of the wedding party has already left the van and begun the slow walk down the sand to where Chase is waiting. It’s just me and my brother in the van. “How are you feeling?” he asks. “I’m okay. I hate this part. The waiting,” I reply. “You ready?” He helps me out of the van and we begin the slow, careful march to my future.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
Later that same evening, it’s time for the dance with my dad. The music starts and we begin our slow sway. He’s never been very forthcoming with words, and I can tell he’s concentrating on staying upright, so I just lay my head on his chest and take in everything that is happening. He’s been deteriorating, but he’s still here. Dad starts breathing differently and I, thinking we’re about to have an emotional moment, ask, “Are you ok?” To which he replies, “My pants are falling down.” We both have to take a break from our dance to laugh. Then we make sure he gets his pants back up.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
A month later, all of my belongings are packed into my 2005 Ford Focus, and it’s time to say goodbye to my family and friends and drive 2000 miles across the country to Escondido, California to start a new life with my husband. I hug my mom and dad goodbye and tell them I’ll see them at Christmas in 2 months. I try to stay strong for my mom. My best friend, Lindsey, hugs me for a long time. We let the tears fall. We’ve been friends for 10 years. “10 years is a long time,” she says. We know everything is about to change. We’ve never been apart for more than a month or two. We hug each other a little tighter.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m twenty-three, and Chase is coming home from his second deployment. They are doing a flyover and will be landing on the tarmac outside of the hangar. Chase’s mom is there waiting beside me and we’re both about to crawl out of our skin with nervous energy. Finally, we see the helicopters flying in and landing. We’re standing at the edge of the flight line in the California sun, waiting for the okay to run toward the Marines who just came home after 7 months. GO! It takes me a little while to find my husband, but when I do I nearly tackle him. We are both laughing and crying. My body doesn’t know how to handle all of these emotions, and I’ve never laughed AND cried this hard at the same time, so I just keep snorting in Chase’s ear. Bless. Him.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m twenty-five, and my dad has recently seen a sharp decline. After a couple of weeks in the hospital, he is sent to a local nursing home to “rehabilitate”. I’m still in denial until I see him. He looks like a shell of his former self. I barely recognize him. He’s unconscious the entire day. It’s me, my mom, my brother, and Chase. We all are trying to hold it together for each other, but I have to go outside for a little while to just cry. I’m sitting in the sun and trying to breathe, and then Chase comes outside to sit with me and share my pain.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I ask the nurses if I could bring my dogs the next day. My dad loves my dogs. She says yes, so the next day we show up with Jasper and Clary. Dad’s not in his room, but the nurses point us to a group room where he’s supposed to be getting some exercise with the other “patients” (inmates is more like it). He’s conscious and spots me and Chase and says, “Get me out of here.” He’s always been more of a suffer-in-solitude type. We laugh and walk him back to his room. He is so happy to see the dogs. We all sit and talk and the difference between yesterday and today is night and day. He’s awake. He’s alive. We’re happy. I take a picture with him and kiss his cheek. We are going back to Virginia, but I feel confident I’ll see him again.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
A month later, I get a call from my mom. There has been a sharp decline again, and Dad has about 24 hours. “I’m so sorry, baby. He’s unconscious. It will be peaceful. He’s not here.” We know we won’t make it back in time to see him before he dies, so mom puts the phone to Dad’s ear and lets me talk to him. “I love you, Dad. I’m so sorry I’m not there. I’m so sorry for anything I ever did to disappoint you. I hope you’re proud of me. I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
The next day, as we’re driving down from Virginia, I get the call from my brother. We had just stopped at Chick-Fil-A in South Carolina and gotten back in the car. I answer and can barely speak. “Hello?” A short pause, then, with a cracking voice, “Haley? He’s gone.” My brother and I sit on the phone for a couple of minutes, letting our tears fall, the enormity of our grief only survivable because it’s a shared weight. “I love you.” “I love you too.” We hang up. Chase puts his arms around me and lets me cry for a long time.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m twenty-five and sitting on an exercise ball with my elbows on the hospital bed. Chase is one on side of me and my mom is on the other side of me, rubbing my back and praying over me. Our doula is coaching me through each contraction. “Try to relax your hands and breathe. You’re doing great.” Oceans by Hillsong is playing on my phone, and I get an overwhelming sense of peace and joy. It’s supernatural. God is in this place.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m twenty-six and sitting in my in-law’s living room. We have just moved back to our hometown and are staying with Chase’s mom and stepdad until our house in Virginia sells. I am drinking good wine, laughing, and watching Chase’s mom bounce our happy 7-month-old, Law, on her leg. We’re back home, surrounded by so much love, and all is well.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
I’m thirty and it’s mine and Chase’s 10 year anniversary. We rented a cabin in Dahlonega, GA and are riding around, looking at the views, and visiting local wineries. I’m a little wine drunk and Chase is driving me to a lavender farm. I want this moment to last forever.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
It’s my thirty-first birthday, and our family is in Orlando, FL with our best friends, Erica and Kyle, and their 2 babies. I wake up to gifts from Erica and a hilarious cake-fail from Chase. We go to Universal Studios and drink great beer while enjoying the wonder in the eyes of Law and his best friend, Jonah. We never want to go home.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
Last week Chase’s family gathered at my brother and sister-in-law’s new house here in Albany. We were celebrating Karon’s birthday as well as their beautiful new home. There was a lot of family there with our loud and rowdy kids, but it was exactly how it was supposed to be. Even with all of our chaos, we love each other. We’re here for each other. We’re family. The house is bright with big, open windows, and we’re eating lemon velvet cake. I hear God whisper:
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
Chase and I are driving home that very same night with Law in the backseat. Law drops something and loudly makes the sad trombone sound effect – “WAH WAH WAAAAHHHH!” Chase and I crack up. We make a game of taking turns saying that we dropped something and then we all three, in unison, sing “WAH WAH WAAAAHHHH!” We are laughing so hard I have tears in my eyes.
Sacred. Holy. Kadosh.
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Kadosh is the Hebrew word for holy, sacred, or set apart. Our lives are made up of these Kadosh moments. Some of them are found in big, happy, and obvious ways – in a wedding, a baby, or a birthday. Others are painful or uncomfortable – in death and mourning, or moving across the country. Others are more obscure – in lavender or a car ride. But they’re here. They’re all around us.
Queen Glennon Doyle calls these moments Kairos moments. She writes:
There are two different types of time. Chronos time is what we live in. It’s regular time, it’s one minute at a time, it’s staring down the clock till bedtime time, it’s ten excruciating minutes in the Target line time, it’s four screaming minutes in time out time, it’s two hours till daddy gets home time. Chronos is the hard, slow passing time we parents often live in.
Then there’s Kairos time. Kairos is God’s time. It’s time outside of time. It’s metaphysical time. Kairos is those magical moments in which time stands still. I have a few of those moments each day, and I cherish them.
Like when I actually stop what I’m doing and really look at Tish. I notice how perfectly smooth and brownish her skin is. I notice the perfect curves of her teeny elf mouth and her asianish brown eyes, and I breathe in her soft Tishy smell. In these moments, I see that her mouth is moving but I can’t hear her because all I can think is – This is the first time I’ve really seen Tish all day, and my God – she is so beautiful. Kairos.
Like when I’m stuck in chronos time in the grocery line and I’m haggard and annoyed and angry at the slow check-out clerk. And then I look at my cart and I’m transported out of chronos. And suddenly I notice the piles of healthy food I’ll feed my children to grow their bodies and minds and I remember that most of the world’s mamas would kill for this opportunity. This chance to stand in a grocery line with enough money to pay. And I just stare at my cart. At the abundance. The bounty. Thank you, God. Kairos.
Or when I curl up in my cozy bed with Theo asleep at my feet and Craig asleep by my side and I listen to them both breathing. And for a moment, I think- how did a girl like me get so lucky? To go to bed each night surrounded by this breath, this love, this peace, this warmth? Kairos.
These kairos moments leave as fast as they come- but I mark them. I say the word kairos in my head each time I leave chronos. And at the end of the day, I don’t remember exactly what my kairos moments were, but I remember I had them. And that makes the pain of the daily parenting climb worth it.
If I had a couple Kairos moments during the day, I call it a success.
That Chronos time? That is sand slipping through our fingers. But that Kairos time – those Kadosh moments – are eternal. They are infinite in their impact. And the only way to find them is to pay attention. You’ll find God there.
