In honor of my jogging stroller

Before we sold our house and downsized into a temporary rental, my friend and I had a garage sale. I hauled over all kinds of stuff, including my jogging stroller.
I have torn down our crib and sold baby toys and clothes with no real sentimental pull to hang on or cry for what they represent. But deciding to sell the jogging stroller did to me what cribs and clothes maybe do for other moms. This clunky heavy stroller that Kevin backed into several years ago so it pulls hard to the left, is old and  muddy and has no brake, but it holds a whole lot of sentiment for me.
10 years ago, when Cambel wasn't even old enough to sit up in one, we bought this stroller. I used to prop him up with towels and take him out for walks and runs in Noblesville and then our little temporary rental in Wolcotville. In those days it might have been a large part of maintaining my sanity as a new, insecure, and overwhelmed mom. As Cambel got older and I felt less overwhelmed, we would stop to see the horses near our house in Shipshewana and run up and down the road in our neighborhood.  Sometimes he would nap, and somewhere along the way I found that I could run and pray and the jogging stroller became a medium for quiet and prayer.
Then Ada came along and I loaded her into the jogging stroller and ran in Shipshewana and then at  Mounds State Park when we lived in Anderson. She was more talkative than Cambel and liked the runs less, but still it was a sacred time together--even while I felt blessedly alone for a couple of miles.
When Oliver came home I ran with him in the jogging stroller at Mounds and then here in Wilmore. He loved to ride and I logged many miles with him in that seat in front of me.
And with each child, and in each place we have lived,  I have these treasured memories of stillness, of rhythm, of connection, of prayer, of conversation, of sacredness--all with this old stroller as the medium.
It's not that I really wanted to keep it. Oliver can ride a bike now and is too big for it, and there are no other babies behind him. It is just the recognition of a passing season, a slight ache for what was, and a gratefulness that so much goodness can be found in such an ordinary thing.