I remember being a little girl at my grandma Nana’s house in Lawrenceville, Illinois, playing with my cousins while our moms visited together nearby, either in the variety of chairs lining my grandmother’s backyard patio, or, if it was a hot day, in the safety of the dining room chairs where they could easily watch us playing on the long concrete driveway below the windows. My cousins and I, along with any other neighborhood kids who had wandered over to play, would all be in the driveway with our bikes and our toys, chalk-lined hopscotch or murals drawn until our knuckles were raw, and the chalk was worn down to nubs. There we would be, playing in the sun on a summer afternoon, and we would hear the unmistakable sound of the ice cream truck heading down the street. Collectively, without a word, we would all stop whatever we were doing, listening, gauging the distance, weighing our options for weaseling our way into a treat.

Just asking our moms outright wouldn’t work. They would try to tell us that we would spoil our dinners (a lie moms made up to deny children all manner of sweet things) or that there was ice cream in the freezer on the porch if we wanted to eat ice cream (completely irrelevant, because EVERYONE knows that 1980’s ice cream truck ice cream was 1000% superior to any and every kind of ice cream in any and every grandmother’s porch freezer—no contest). If the dads were nearby, they were an option, though it was kind of a cruel set up to pressure them into saying yes so that then THEY, instead of my cousins and me, had to answer to the moms. But what usually happened when we heard the ice cream truck was that we could pretend we were going to do nothing, because inevitably, our cousin Nathan would NOT let the truck go by. He physically could not stand the thought of it passing the house without us getting to line up, pore over the options, change our minds at least twice, wait for one parent to open our Dreamsicles or Popsicles or Rainbow bars or ice cream cookies, while the other paid the ice cream man in loose change secured from family stick-shift sedan ashtrays and cup holders. So Nathan would take off, sprinting towards the street, against all of the rules, to flag down the ice cream truck.

Then, a few of us would, without having to discuss it, run inside to “tell on him,” which inevitably meant that our bustling moms would head in a herd to the street, unable to explain to the expectant ice cream man that they were not going to pay the money one must pay in the mid-1980’s to secure ice cream for a group of about ten to fifteen children. Oh no, this was far too much for our generous moms, and so there they would stand, completely put on the spot, scolding Nathan, none the wiser to having been duped by the next generation of our family.

So, inevitably, moments later we would all be happily sitting on the front stoop of my grandmother’s brick porch steps, shaded from the sun by a the giant white birch tree branches that hung low over our heads, and trading samples of each other’s treats, with sweet sticky ice cream melting down our hands and chins. It was the epitome of childhood summer glory.

This afternoon, an ice cream truck made a lap through every little nook and cranny of our neighborhood, music chiming through a loud speaker. The only customers I saw were a couple of teen girls, both dressed head to toe in black mini-skirts/fishnets/combat boots/torn-up band tees; both girls had multi-colored hair and a myriad of facial piercings each. They ran down the steps excitedly to catch the vehicle. As it turned the corner and threatened to disappear from sight, they both broke into an unabashed run, teetering awkwardly atop lanky high school legs, giggling with wads of $1 bills poking from their fists.

I watched from the mailbox nearby as the man waited patiently for them to pore over the choices and change their minds at least twice. When he handed them their treats, a smile spread across his face, and they took their loot and ran back to their home, skipping steps as they raced giggling up to the front door.

I imagined them sitting down inside, on one of their bedroom floors, music playing in the background, while they laughed and ate their ice cream together, like they were little kids again. What a sweet scene to watch unnoticed from afar.

And I thought about this kind of experience last night for a while, as I was at the beach for an evening walk.

A mother was running towards the water trying to keep pace with her young toddler, who was probably about the age of three. As I looked more closely I could see that the young mom looked frazzled, tired from a day spent chasing a toddler, quite literally. The little girl’s long sandy hair was matted by the wind and sand, a few strands stuck to her flushed cheeks, with the rest of it whipping behind her in the ocean wind as she ran. She was wearing a mermaid dress-up outfit, which to her, meant she belonged IN the water, as soon as possible, something her mother had not accounted for ahead of time, it appeared. I heard her mom calling for her to wait, but the little girl hit those waves and erupted into peels of laughter. “Mommy, I LOVE THE OCEAN MORE THAN ANYONE IN THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD!” she yelled. Her mom surrendered, slowed to a trot, reached her daughter who was proudly standing half submerged in the waves, and scooped her up and kissed her chubby little cheek. “You’re all wet,” her mom said. “I love it the most, Mommy. I really do!” the little aspiring mermaid proclaimed. “I know you do, honey,” her mom said.

The mom caught my glance and grinned at me, appearing a little embarrassed to find someone had watched their moment. I smiled back at her, knowingly—one of those smiles between moms, one I hope said, “My little girl was the same at that age, and then I blinked, and she was grown. Please enjoy her, for all moms everywhere, as much as you can.” Then I nodded and continued my walk. But I felt noticeably lighter with my heart a little fuller.

I felt like I had been gifted a secret.

I felt the same way about their moment at the ocean that I did about those teen girls with their ice creams today—that the Great Creative Love opens up little windows of humanity between people each day—a tiny glimpse, a moment of intimacy for sharing the human experience and for pausing to remember we are all a tiny part of one another’s lives. It’s a reminder to slow down, to open our eyes and hearts and minds—to see one another and to stand in the presence of this beautiful world and let the sun shine in, let that link be made, acknowledged with a nod or a smile or a kind word—a letting go and moving inward, towards one another, but also towards ourselves, towards the Great Creative Love or God or the Universe or the Mystery. It doesn’t matter what you call IT, only THAT you call IT when you need to and let IT in when it knocks on the door of your heart for a visit, even a short visit at the mailbox or at the beach. Because we are all a part of each other’s lives, and it matters. It is the grace we need to remember, especially when the remembering is difficult because life and errands and jobs and work want us to movemovemove instead of slowing down and breathing and REMEMBERING we are made of one another’s Love and Wonder and Beauty.