I unwrap a gift today.
There is crisp, pink tissue paper and tiny fingers. A small foot. A pair of dimples.
Cherry blossom love kisses the sky and my daughter’s cheeks. My daughter. There you are. One full year of memories. All those midnight hours and aching bones and swaying shoulders and desperate prayers and spilling gratitude and tentative attempts at sitting, crawling, walking away from me.
You always turn back toward me at the last minute and I cup your heart in mine as your face burrows into my neck.
I unwrap the gift that this generous God has saved till last. Again. He surprises me with His ridiculous goodness. The day serenades – a love song chorus of dappled pink trees, South African accents, strawberries and life.
It’s right there on the plate – in fifteen different languages. One of them home to me.
My tiny daughter – everything about you exclaims this truth.
And even if I were deaf I would still hear the day proclaiming in a thousand different tongues that God is good and He brings good gifts. He unwraps life alongside me on a rundown deck in Northern Virginia on the most perfect March 19th.
He’s been doing that since I first promised Peter I would never want to have children.
And then again when I was certain I would never want to mother a daughter.
He’s at it again today. Patiently waiting for me to unwrap more layers still of His goodness. How could I have known? How could the desperate teenager orphaned from her womanhood have known that He had life waiting for me on a spring morning in the States?
Roots grow best in hearts, not soil.
Days have felt heavy lately and I have felt empty. All poured out. People I love are grieving and I know with my own two eyes what Jesus meant when He said, “in this world you will have trouble.”
But today I see the sky and the blossoms just dancing there on the branches. And I hear the second part of that promise, “But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
A baby girl walks holding my hand.
Her fingers laced through mine like ribbon.