Wednesday, October 26th, 2011
This morning I opened the kitchen door to hang clothes in the glorious sun (the beautiful, marvelous, greatly appreciated sun) and you came running to it squealing and plopping yourself down impatient for me to put your beloved shoes on those little feet. When fully shod, you stepped out the door and took a deep breath before toddling over toward some of the infamous shrubs that have yet to be cut back. I smiled and started hanging clean kitchen rags and towels out in the morning air. After I was about halfway done I noticed that I couldn’t hear you and poked my head through the drape of towels to see what you happened to be doing…
My eyes smiled when I saw you sitting on the kitchen stoop with your hands on your knees, looking up toward the top of the cement wall where the vines spill over from the neighboring property and dance in the wind. It felt as though I was watching a compulsive and intimate moment, like the first time John decided he wanted to pray by himself before bed and I lurked outside his door to hear him kneel by his bed and express his heart to God. For a few moments I just watched, unable to tear my eyes away from you, drinking it in. You had a look of utter contentment brushed across your eyes and the curve of your mouth as if your heart was singing with the sparrows and lifting on the breeze. Your peace became my own.
When we are outside and I ask you what you’re looking at you will usually sign “leaf” or “cloud.” You told me “leaf” when I sat down quietly next to you and asked this morning.
I am so grateful to you, my baby-daughter, for reminding me today that God is in the beauty all around me and in the breeze that kisses my face as I am still and quietly listen with my heart.
May you never stop “seeing” the simple leaves, the clouds that never are still, the grass that tickles your toes… May wonder always fill your eyes as you sit in the world around you and may it graciously and inevitably lead your heart to worship. I adore you.