Category: Gratitude

Giving up on Success

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Today I look around my house at the endless list of things I could do. In this sacred solitude, I feel a magnetic guilt that pulls my mind to the undone tasks. It takes a resolute decision to take a precious moment to fix myself a bialetti coffee, poured in my gold stamped, “blogging day” mug, and position my fingers to dance over my keyboard.

I wonder if it is the plan of the enemy to persuade us that doing things we enjoy is frivolous, rather than a necessary art. After all, what better way to render us useless than to keep us from dancing, relishing, and celebrating life? When our lives become about duties, tasks and responsibilities we become like the machines we create; designed to respond to programming rather than human emotion. But when we feel, react, and challenge, thats when we go from crowd pleasing to head turning.

Machines don’t start movements, write poetry, embrace for sheer pleasure, create out of enjoyment, stand still just to feel the wind on their face; and machines certainly don’t dance. Dancing is far too frivolous for the serious business of a machine.

I’ve been in a season of asking a lot of questions. Questions put us on uncertain ground, but yet, nothing is more certain than an answer. An answer is a challenged truth. A truth that has been tested, evaluated, and proven true.

Recently I keep asking myself why I do what I do? Why do I blog or write a book? Why do I read? Why do I lead Bible Study or moms group? Because, none of these things are within my realm of responsibility. They aren’t my job and they don’t fall under my duties as a wife, or mother, daughter, sister, or friend, so why do them? And once more, does my doing them really matter?

When people ask me “what do you do?” I feel like I’m supposed to only include the things I do to make money, but honestly, those aren’t really the things that make my fingers buzz with joy.

I think that in this age we have confused careers with callings.

I don’t make money writing about God. I aspire to become a Christian author, but if a wild haired man climbed out of a shiny metallic time machine from the future and told me, “You will never make a dime as a Christian writer,” I think I would keep it up anyway. Why? Because human hearts aren’t programmed to produce- God made us in His image to create.

When we define success by popularity, paychecks, and position, in order to live in bigger houses, to do more work, and please more people, we will always come up short, or at least, the satisfaction is fleeting.  

T.S. Eliot was quoted as saying about the radio, “it is a medium of entertainment which permits millions of people to listen to the same joke at the same time, and yet remain lonesome.”

Maybe success is the medium by which we all try to listen to the same joke. We all pretend to smile, and laugh, and get it, but deep down, we’re all aching for something more; never really feeling like we’re hearing the same joke as everyone else, or maybe everyone else just has a betters sense of humor.

Success tells me I haven’t arrived, but when I create, I’m there in that moment, living my calling. I think if each of us took a little more time making less money and enjoying what we’re really good at, doing that thing that makes our bellies feel warm and our feet tingle, well I think we would all feel more human, in a really good way.

The day that I write in order to achieve, more than to create, is the day I should stop. Because there is nothing I can achieve in this world that has more value than my Creator. And by His Spirit, I pray that these humble words I type don’t just achieve human success, but touch human hearts.

 

Wasn’t I Made for More than Dirty Dishes?

made for more hope hopeless life faith Moms

“We were made for more than just ordinary lives. Its time for us to more than just survive. We were made to Thrive.” Casting Crowns

Today I have felt itchy. 

Not the kind of itch thats relieved with the good scratch of untrimmed finger nails, but an itch that feels like a buzz under my skin. A holy discontentment that I can’t summarize with words.

For part time work I write ad copy. My job is to make things appealing and relatable with words. So while doing my real life job as a stay at home mom, I keep my creative mind busy turning over words and ideas, to craft something new and unexpected that convinces you life is better with (fill in the blank). Sometimes I get so wrapped up in my work that I begin to believe I need to do more, or be more to have a better life.

January has been a slow month for work, and my mind feels restless. Like a bored cat pounces at a bright ball of yarn, my unoccupied brain takes my fears captive, pulling out threads of worry and insecurity.  

When I don’t have an assignment to write, my time is freed up to blog, or write that book I’ve been dreaming about. I’m without excuse….And now…I find myself without words.

When I haven’t written something in a while I begin to wonder if my fingers still know what they are doing. Will I be able to sit before the bright blue tiles and string together a story, or poem, a blog post, that summarizes all of the joy and love; all the uncertainty, doubt and fear that twists and pulls and tugs in a confused jumble of bright emotions in my heart? Will my words still be enough? Will someone be able to really see the real me so that I can be known? I begin to believe the lie that who I am is what I do. Its what I write, its the money I make, its what I look like, or the kind of mom I am.

In my itchy, wordless, weary place I read His word:

“His pleasure is not in the strength of the horse,
nor his delight in the legs of the warrior;
11 the Lord delights in those who fear him,
who put their hope in his unfailing love.” Psalm 147
“1In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2He was with God in the beginning. 3Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. 4In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. 5The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcomea it.” John 1:1-5
“14The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.” John 1:14

As a writer I wrap my identity up in the words that I write. But then God Himself is the Word.  My own words are just a mirror to catch and reflect His light. God doesn’t want my pretty package of words, He delights in my reverence. His word reminds me that my identity can’t be written with my own two hands– no, I was made for more than anything I can create. 

If I try to follow the script the world writes, then I will never be enough. Even if I sacrifice my life to being enough, there will always be more to do, accomplish, earn, and achieve, like the incessant stream of social media updates that hunger for attention.  My worth is reduced to the next best thing. 

But then God delights in those who put their hope in His unfailing love; a well that never runs dry. A horse and a warrior will cripple with age. My words will get lost like the hundreds of unread books that sit on my shelf. But the Word who is God and spoke this spinning ball of an Earth into existence; yes the word of God that made darkness, light, and life, breathes life into my lungs, His Word reveals my purpose and Who He created me to be.

When I get itchy under my skin I think its my soul feeling how ill fitting this flesh really is. Its my heart longing to just sit at His feet and weep and laugh and rest. I get so tired of being the daughter of the one true king, deeply loved and divinely called, and yet burdened with dirty dishes and hungry mouths, with unpaid bills and unmowed lawns. I want to shout to the world about God’s love. I want to see hearts healed and lives transformed, I want to usher in God’s redemption and grace and embolden other women to let their blood burn in their veins for Him too.

Then I remember that Jesus took on burdensome flesh too.

Divine God took on human inconveniences like eating, washing, and sleeping. Jesus, Son of God, God Himself, made His dwelling among us so that He could know the discomforts of human flesh.

He came to bring us a hope that burns brighter than this pale human world- He came to be among us, and remind us, that we’re not of this world. So that we can remember that who we are isn’t wrapped up in human flesh. Its not wrapped up in the things we do in this world. We were made for more. We are clothed in Christ, Word made flesh, who exhaled, “It is finished.”

God, who submitted Himself to us, so that we could be His once and for all.

Christmas Blues

 

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My daughter was playing with the felt heart on our advent calendar. She held it up, closing one eye to inspect it in the ray of sun filtering through the window.

“Look mommy, this heart means love.”

“Yes, because love came down at Christmas time.”

“Where is love Mom?”

“In Jesus”

“But how can I see love?”

“Hmmm…I see love in the Christmas tree we put up together. I see love in the pictures of us on the wall. I see love when I look at you. Can you find love in this room?”

“I see love in the water in that cup on the table.”

“Why is that?”

“Because we need to drink water to live…right mom?”

“Absolutely.”

The conversation I had with my three year old reminds me that I’ve been going through the motions of Christmas, but I’ve been forgetting the most important part, the love. 

As a busy mom, I can go half the morning without downing anything but black coffee. My body eventually reminds me it is desperate for water, with a foggy brain and pulsing pain at my temples.

I’m terrible at drinking quickly. If I was ever challenged to a chugging contest, I would forfeit, because, my body doesn’t even know how.  Chugging hurts my throat and makes me feel suffocated. So, when it comes to water, I’m forced to drink it slowly, sip by sip. 

Love slows me down too. When I live in love, I sip up each moment with relish. I don’t realize how desperately I needed it until I start to take it in.

Its easy to go through the motions of Christmas without the feelings. Sometimes we hope that the feelings will catch up somehow. We can feel dried up and numb of emotion, or flooded with unexpected melancholy and sadness. Its not always easy to teach our heart to feel the right emotions- it can misbehave like an unruly child. But love is patient with us. It sits there and waits like a glass of water on a table, ready to be picked up and sipped in.

Jesus didn’t wait for ready hearts to come onto the scene. He certainly didn’t wait for a room twinkling with candles and strung up with garland and lights. The stars and stable were enough. Announcements didn’t go out, Bethlehem was busy and bustling with a census. No, shepherds and livestock would do as an adoring audience. He surrendered himself to the care of a scared new mom who cried out in pain and felt the sharp sting of love mixed with uncertainty and fear, pure awe and wonder. Jesus came down as love that first learned to breathe, and suckle, to eat, and toddle, walk and talk and live as our flesh.

So easily, I simplify love as the warm fuzzy feelings. I want to wrap Christmas in tinsel and tradition, and happy thoughts, but the truth is Christmas is about a Savior who patiently endured pain and struggle to be among us. True love is enduring the good and bad, and the tedious to be with someone. Love is waiting and walking alongside someone. 

I can find love in decorating a Christmas tree, or the happy snapshots of memories as a family. But my daughter reminds me that its in everything. Its in shedding tears as you say goodbye to your brother, or dad, and hold out the hope that one day you will share a table with them again. Its in watching those you love grow older, its in forgiving, and washing dishes, in sitting with the pain of loss and still getting up to make breakfast for the family. Love is quenching our thirst, our need for more than what this world can offer. Love waits for us patiently. It puts on our flesh and learns to walk with us. Yes, love comes down in an infant, is lifted up on a cross and buried in the earth. Love rises again, to draw us home. Love sustains, it fills us up, it overflows and it quenches our thirsty souls. Love makes everything complete.

 

 

Gratitude is a lot Like Raspberries

 

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I hesitate to take the thin plastic container from the fridge. I bought them for eating, but then there’s the matter of rinsing them clean. They’re not always the easiest fruit to snack on either. Somehow my kids find a way to spread the pink juice on their fingers and around the corners of their mouth. My grown up toddler smashes them on her tray and then runs her sleeves in it.

Raspberries. They’re even spelled differently to emphasize their explosive nature. They look like innocent pink clumps, but under a bit of pressure they burst. Eating them is a sensory overload of texture and taste. Tart, sweet, crunchy, juicy, messy…yes…raspberries.

This morning as my kids popped them in their mouths, pleasure spreads like gratitude, all over their hands and faces…

Finish reading this post over at Fresh Hope for Mental Health!

 

Mommy I Need You

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  “Mommy I need you.”

I am a hummingbird.
Floating, deceptively still
Brain vibrating and fingers whirring
Over the keyboard.
“I’m right here honey.”

“Mommy I need you.”
I am an ant.
Tracing figure eights about the house.
Resolutely hauling
laundry baskets and brooms back and forth.
“I’m right here honey.”

“Mommy I need you.”
I am a tiger.
Crouching, staring at my phone screen.
Eyes tracking and fingers pouncing
On colored icons and buttons.
“I’m right here honey.”

“Mommy I need you.”
I am a butterfly.
Flapping wildly.
Entrapped
In a net of tangled thoughts.
“I’m right here honey.”

“Mommy, I really need you.”
I am eyes, looking in her face.
I am arms, holding her tightly.
I am the wet kiss that stamps her forehead.
“I’m right here honey.”
“Yes, here you are”

She’s A One-der: My Second Chance Baby

Happy Birthday Elyse!

In a movie called “About Time,” the character has the amazing ability to time travel back to his past. At first he tries to memorize and control every aspect of his future to get it right, but then his Dad (also a time traveler) gives him great advice. He says instead of trying to change his life, to repeat it twice in exactly the same way, “The first time with all the tensions and worries that stop us noticing how sweet the world can be, but the second time noticing.” This gives the character the amazing ability to overcome fear and uncertainty, and to simply live moment to moment, soaking them up with all of his senses.
I see Elyse as my second chance at motherhood. As she grows, I don’t worry about well meaning advice, or following a book, or ticking off the milestones. I get to soak her up one day at a time and relish her living out who God created her to be, on her own timetable.

Bree is my first, and its exhilarating, and challenging and exciting. Just like my Bree. But Elyse is my take an extra moment to cuddle, nurse her in bed, cleaning can wait, take your time to grow up baby, and I’m loving every second with her.
But even though I get to have a repeat on motherhood, I love to experience how absolutely different God makes each of my girls. Where Bree is bold, my Elyse is tender; Bree is brave, and Elyse is more tentative, Bree is moody, Elyse is mellow, and yet they are both mine, full of Daddy’s mischief, and my sensitive heart.
Elyse stretched my belly beyond capacity. Now she is stretching our lives, to a point where it sometimes feels beyond capacity. But I laugh at the question I asked, just days before her birth, “Will I be able to love this one as much as I love Bree?”
God stretches us and in the process He grows us.

And the best part is He grows our hearts, so that we have the ability to love more and more.

Happy Birthday to my attached to my hip, cuddle all morning, slobbery kisses, cling to my leg, second chance baby, that makes life even richer and fuller than I ever thought possible

Open the Eyes of My Heart

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Open the Eyes of My Heart 


Their feet tangled together, baby blue high tops and pink ankle socks in sequined slip ons. Their heads dipped  to share a secret as the band played a song I knew well. Squinting his eyes shut, the boy in front crooned “Open the eyes of my heart Lord, Open the eyes of my heart, I want to see you.”

I sat beside my niece for “special friend day,” and as we sat in chapel together, I had the rare opportunity of enjoying time free from my two daughters.

In the peaceful moment, I absorbed every detail like dry soil.

But as we asked “open the eyes of my heart, Lord,” I realized that God was in our midst. Because the kingdom of God was with us, five feet above the ground in these seven year olds with feet too big, and grown up teeth, uncertain smiles, and excited, stumbling steps.

Too often I wait for God to show up around the corner, instead of finding him right in front of me.

I look at my niece and her friend. I remember when friendship was made of simple things like secrets, and giggles, and swapping snacks at lunch. How easily we adults complicate it with insecurities, and judgement, and boundaries that we construct around ourselves.

How easily I find reasons to rush through my moments in a harried haze with a list of chores and to-dos, instead of opening my eyes to the kingdom of God that’s right in front of me in baby coos and delighted laughter; the smell of jasmine and strong coffee; in dancing to a good song in the middle of the grocery store and finding rocks on the sidewalk.

When we look at God we realize that he reaches us through simple means that are real, and right in front of our faces. Through the trees He  teaches us his timing through seasons that reveal a cycle of living, and dying, being pruned, and bearing fruit. He teaches us His truth through simple means of bread and wine and water. He made the entire universe and yet He took the time to craft each of us uniquely and intricately from our little toes to each eyelash.

Our world teaches us to strive and scrape and rush and push, to earn and accumulate and achieve. But when we live with our eyes and hearts open to each passing moment, God teaches us a slower pace that relies more on what He will do, and less on what we can accomplish. When we rely on God’s provision, then we can be more like the trees, and the birds, and the flowers, waiting on his nourishment, and trusting in His timing to reveal His creation through us.

I look at my seven year old niece that is often in a hurry to grow up. She can’t wait to have a phone, to wear nail polish and lipgloss, to carry a purse, and become a teenager. So often I remind her to slow down and enjoy jumping rope, and learning cartwheels, to savor every art project, and class party. As she skips ahead, I see all the lessons she still needs to learn before she can take on the responsibilities of a teen. But then, I watch her with her best friend, trying to pick each other up, giggling at inside jokes and funny faces, and I realize, I am just like her, living moment to moment, yet rushing ahead to the next big thing. As I remind her to appreciate the life before her, God whispers a reminder to me, that I have much to learn before I try to plow ahead.

How easily we believe that we still haven’t found God’s kingdom, that we still don’t know the fullness of God’s truth. We squeeze our eyes shut singing “Open the Eyes of My Heart Lord.”

But when we open our eyes in the moment, we see life lived in the process of growing. In seven year old kids, growing in to the people that God created them to be, but living in God’s fullness in that very moment. Because God numbered our days, but He parcels them out second by second- so that we can have open eyes and open hearts in each precious moment, and so that we can see His kingdom in our very midst.

A Homemade Kind of Love

Marriage Love

He squeezed my hand as my body shook with pain. I clawed at the sheets as the fire grew in my belly. My breaths came in labored gasps. I tried to focus on the conversation through the static of my throbbing brain, as phrases like “history of anxiety” and “panic attack” jabbed at my consciousness. My rolling eyes found his steady gaze; his clear blue eyes collected tears while his brow knotted together in a question mark. As I took another heaving breath and let out a sob, I anchored myself to the weight of his clear booming voice. “You need to treat her breakthrough pain. Call the doctor and give her something now.”

1930926_618040769213_9604_nWhen your chart says “anxiety” you get other unspoken words that dangle from it like “hypochondriac” and “over-dramatic.” But as the new nurse tried to affix a label and file me away with her other patients, my husband stood firmly in her way. He knew what it looked like when I wore real pain, and he wouldn’t stand by and watch me suffer.

He put his lips on my temple and shushed and rocked me like an injured child. “She’s taking care of it, it will be better soon,” he whispered. I squeezed my eyes shut until the delaudid coursed through my veins making my arms and legs heavy and my mind numb. I drifted off into a painless sleep, my heart wrapped tightly around the man who stood at my side.

My mom always told me “don’t marry the man who makes you feel loved, marry the one who shows you love.” I felt doubly blessed when I met the one who not only made me feel adored, but proved his love by moving his life, packed neatly in his  dusty blue Oldsmobile across 2,000 miles and 6 states.

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In the beginning of our marriage I clung to the butterflies, to the dreams of the future, and the feelings that were so powerful that they fueled me through each day. But as time passes, the butterflies can slowly become dormant, the dreams give way to reality, and the feelings that were once so vibrant, become less palpable. The love that we wrap tightly around ourselves for security, can become threadbare with the trials of time and struggle, and a love once visceral, can become hidden in the fabric of everyday life.

In the happy moments we celebrate our love; in the difficult moments we just love1736_634449585813_7635_n.

What my mom tried to teach me, from the lens of 30 years of marriage, is that love isn’t what we feel, its what we do. The winsome feelings that bubble over when we love someone are light and beautiful and airy and whimsical. But just as bubbles took my breath away as a little girl, they were also illusive; paper thin and fleeting fragments of beauty that popped as I tried to grab hold of them.  What’s left is the love that digs in and makes itself at home. The homemade love thats knit together by the choices we make every day. But also, love is seeing the best in someone when they can’t find their own reflection, and love is knowing what someone needs, when they can’t ask for it themselves.

We don’t always find love in the sparkle of an evening dress  and beside a candlelit dinner, sometimes it surprises us in the warm embrace of a fleece robe and under fluorescent lights in a hospital bed.

10551015_10102951303945063_2314241828432024367_nThe “falling in love” part is easy. Choosing to love someone every day, year after year, that takes hard work and commitment. It’s like comparing new shoes to an old favorite pair. New love is exciting, it’s clean and bright; but, love after success & disappointment, life’s surprises & day-to-day monotony, after realizing dreams & enduring the sharp pain of loss–well that’s the sort of love that you want to slip your feet into after a long day. It knows your grooves, it’s leather is worn and soft, and exquisite. That kind of love is ineffable–it deserves its own place on the shelf.

So to celebrate six years we’ll get a sitter and I’ll wear my heels and he’ll wear a tie and we’ll gaze at each other in the glow of a candle with wine warming our bellies. But I won’t just see my husband’s cleanly shaven face, I’ll also see his boyish smile at the altar, his worried frown as I curl up in a dark room, his awe at holding his two girls, and his tired face after praying with someone for their last time. I’ll know that he’s with me to delight in good food and butterflies, but by God’s grace, he’ll stand watch at my bedside during the seasons when pain intrudes. “Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.” Mark 10:9

 

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Dear Elyse: Your Story

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Dear Elyse

As I lay immobile on the bed, it felt as though I were on a carousel with the world spinning around me.  I fixed my gaze on one immutable point, your daddy’s eyes, as I mouthed over and over to him, “I’m okay, I’ll be okay,” as the stream of tears threatened to blur my vision.

Despite my words, despite his steady eyes, the tears wouldn’t stop pouring out of me. I heard a healthy cry and I saw you from across the room, all ten fingers, all ten toes, your pink skin and head of dark hair, and then my consciousness gave way to the hazy background.

The long summer was marked by the dry California heat, and the long wait for you. The drought caused a strict watering schedule that turned the landscape from lush green to yellowed and dead. The trees’ leaves were dry and spotted as they scattered the streets with their lifeless forms. My own body felt huge and achy; my mouth and throat were parched with an unquenchable thirst.  My days were filled with to-do’s and restlessness, as I waited  for you to make your radiant appearance, like a small pretty bud giving way to a bright and beautiful bloom.

But in my waiting and quiet anticipation, my own life and perspective began to look stale and dried up. The longer I waited, my focus shifted from living to expecting, and my days became consumed by preparation and obligation– stealing the each moment  of its own vitality.

On a Sunday morning, at 39 weeks pregnant, my slow bloated body ambled through the streets of Old Town Orange in a feeble attempt to “walk the baby out.” The Old Town  neighborhoods seemed to be the one place that hadn’t been affected by the drought.  As my eyes drank up one green manicured lawn to the next, my focus halted on an ugly brown tangle amidst the tidy landscape. The gnarled dead vines wrapped around the splintered edges of the decayed wood siding. A dusty sign on an old stake poked out of a wheel barrel in the center of the dreary scene. It had only one word in bold lowercase letters, “grow.” I snapped a photo because it seemed significant- and then I left it like an unfinished sentence, to go about my business of walking.

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That evening I went to church. My heart felt heavy with the anxious anticipation of when you would come. I hadn’t had any contractions, and I was afraid I would need a c-section. I wanted to be in control over what would happen, and I wanted to know what to expect. Yet as we sang the worship song, “The Sound of Grace,” my racing heart and worried mind gave way to an overwhelming feeling of rest and peace.

Grace, sweet grace; A fountain for my soul.                                 Grace, sweet grace; A mighty waterfall.                                         Drops of mercy all around; Everywhere the sound of grace.

As the tears streamed down my face, I looked up and smiled. For the first time in a long time I was soaking up the moment for all its goodness as God nourished me with his love and assurance. Deep in my heart I knew that no matter the circumstances, His abundant blessings wouldn’t run dry.

I awoke to your weight on my chest, your soft warm body and hungry suckling mouth. Tears ran down my cheeks as I heard the heavy pounding of rain outside the window.

You came to me like the much anticipated rainstorm that refreshed us that Tuesday morning, quenching a deep thirst and washing me with relief and gratitude. And since you’ve been here the tears flow unbidden from my eyes. Anxious tears, tears of relief, tears of fear and pain, of fulfillment, and tears of pure joy. But every drop that falls from my face, whether born out of gratitude or struggle, I collect in an alabaster jar;  knowing that they bring me the nourishment I need to grow.

Despite the gnarled vines that threaten to choke out new life; the thorny weeds of shame, fear, and mistrust, God scatters new seeds in my life; He  waters them with His grace, and grows my life into an overgrown garden of beautiful blooms.

As I rested in my hospital room, I stared at your peaceful face. Your perfect lips pushed out little puffs of breath.  My phone lit up and buzzed quietly with a text message. Auntie Erin had sent a picture, with the caption: “Look at the full rainbow over Orange today!!”

Elyse's Rainbow

My arms were full of you, and my heart was full, knowing that God never leaves us exactly where we are. Through the waiting, through the tears and the struggle and the blessings, I never stop growing and He never stops pouring down His Grace.

God gives us rainbows to remind us of His promises, but all I need to do is look into your face and I know:  God is good.

 

 

 

 

Never Lose Your Wonder

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As I sit on my crumpled bed, I watch you twirling in your pink tutu. You have a radiant smile on your face of pure joy. Earlier you got into my bedside drawer and found an anniversary card that your daddy had given to me. As you explored the white icing sparkles and traced the fuchsia embossed heart, I watched you mouth the word “wow.”

In your eyes I saw that card in an entirely new way. You see my dear, when I received it I saw it as an obligation: a mere trinket that I expected your daddy to give me on the day that marked our five year wedding anniversary. But when I see it through your eyes, I see our wedding cake, I see the rose on your daddy’s lapel, and I see a love story that has woven us together as a family.

At the beach yesterday, you squealed as we took off your sandals and you allowed the sand to explode between your toes; you giggled with glee as the foam of the waves chased our heels; you peacefully rested in utter bliss as your daddy’s arms enveloped you in a seaside nap. It makes me realize that too often I forget to indulge in life and soak it up with all my senses. Too often my prayers of thanks are the cursory things rather than taking time to appreciate the details that God has intimately placed in my life. After all its the sunrises, and morning cuddles, the smell of your hair after a bath, the taste of coffee after a bite of breakfast, red high heels, pink tutus, and sand between my toes that gives life the dimension and color that help me to see more clearly.

You have fresh eyes for everything, finding excitement and awe in the corners of life that, too often, I let collect dust. With your bright vision my own world gets bigger and I’m reminded to see the wonder in things that too easily become commonplace.

While the cotton candy pink of your baby blanket,  that I unwrapped from the white paper tissue before you were born, has dulled to a pastel; days and life experiences will soften your vibrant spirit and your bright eyes. Its hard to believe, but in time, your figure will ease into gentle curves and the skin on your face will relax into subdued lines. Like the fabric on your blanket has become soft with love and washes, this softening of your spirit is part of becoming a woman.  But, as you relax into your different roles as a friend, a professional, a mother and wife, I pray that you don’t lose your wonder. My prayer is that your laughter, enthusiasm, and face splitting smile don’t get dimmer, but richer as you grow into the beautiful woman that God has created you to be.