I get to see beauty, to touch it, to hear it. Every day. Her laughter rings through the air, mixing and turning with the sounds of a bow across strings. Her moral fiber and unquestionable faith weave a miraculous tapestry highlighted with wit, charm, and humor. The depths of her empathic love crash like waves over all she touches.
How is it she has only lived nine years? As I reach out to stroke her hair, as if to try and catch her, I marvel at her. Me? I'm the one chosen to be her mother? It seems I have always known her, and yet, I am voracious for knowledge of who she will be.
She runs and the wind sweeps her hair and her giggles trail behind her like bubbles. How can I hold her? How can I keep her? How can I let her go?
Please, please, Lord. Please help me to at least remember every brush stroke, every note, every word written. Help me to keep each laugh, bottle each hug. Help me to understand, to love the way she does, unwaveringly and without reserve.
What beauty runs before me, what treasure reveals itself day by day.
