She liven’s up a room.
Her eyes twinkle when she smiles.
She’s passionate and caring.
She was born on the fourth of July.
She’s the youngest of six.
She has a will like iron.
She’s my daughter.
When God sent her to us, He knew I would need this spit fire.
I would need the challenge to keep going.
To get up to care for her needs.
To laugh at her antics.
To dig for patience over her daily melt downs.
When grief becomes your companion there are dark, dark days.
Even with the King of Kings is on the throne.
Even when the promise of Eternal life is embedded in the deepest part of your soul.
There are still;
dark, dark days.
The need to rise each day to nurture this child born on the fourth of July has been a gift.
She teaches me to dig in.
Her resolve and iron will leave me shaking some days.
And with that I live through another day.
So we dance the dance of Holiday birthdays.
How does one celebrate and when?
We dance the dance of the youngest child and her sore neglect.
We laugh the laugh of pure joy over antics and shenanigans only a youngest can get a way with.
Gratitude pours forth from my heart as I watch this young lady.
She is now 12.
Her last year before her teens.
Though so much a teen already.
Her love for children and ability to gather a flock is inspiring.
I will continue to watch as this youngest searches and becomes all that God wants her to be.
I will watch as she finds her place in this family and in this world.
Train up a child in the way he should go,
And when he is old he will not depart from it.