They said not to.

They said, “Don’t blink. He’ll be driving before you know it!”

I blinked.

Sixteen years ago today, I held our first child in my arms. A boy. At that moment, I felt like I had all the time in the world. Imagining him driving felt like centuries away. Picturing him becoming a man seemed like something that would happen later. . . much later. Then I blinked.

Seriously. It’s what it feels like today. As I dropped Luke off at Independence High School for the last time (assuming he gets his license later today), I felt like all I did was blink. Before I blinked, I held a newborn baby boy in my arms. After the blink, a young man who will drive himself to school tomorrow.

They said not to. They were right. I blinked.

Sure. A lot happened during that blink. We have many memories. The past sixteen years have taken a lot longer than the time it takes to blink. But today it doesn’t feel that way. It feels surreal. I cannot explain time or how it works. But today I know how it feels. Moments and seasons and weeks and months can seem to last forever. But then you blink. It’s weird, I know. But it’s true, isn’t it? Time can move fast. Time can move slow. But when you take a step back, you admit time vanishes. It’s here. It’s gone.

I decided I am going to stop blinking. Yep. You read that right. I am finally going to do what all these people have been telling me for years: don’t blink. In order to do that, I need to do what? Keep my eyes open. Watch. Observe. Take in. Receive. Enjoy. Be present. Live in the moment. Savor the circumstance. Know that if I blink, it will be gone.

They said not to. But I did it anyway. I blinked. It’s gone.

I may not can stop or control time. But I can keep my eyes open. Who knows? Maybe I’ll have more of those experiences where they say time stands still. I can only hope.

Happy Birthday, Luke. I love you and the man you are becoming.

And, oh yeah, I have my eyes on you. I quit blinking.