when she turns six...

it's in the moment that he wraps his arms around me,

pulls me close against his chest,

 and reminds me to breathe

that the water inside breaks 

and i gasp in air to constricted lungs.


and on the eve of your birthday

i wrestle against pressure like i did those six years ago,

struggle to comply with the pain that ushers in release.

i cling tightly to your daddy

and as he brushes back my hair

and wipes the tears from my face

he whispers over and over,

just breathe.  

just breathe...

and it begins with a breaking.

always does it seems.


elias, curious and all boy, he pushes those plates from the table to the floor and

i'm running out of dishes...

and as i get ready for church this morning,

this day that you were due those 6 years ago,

those first pangs start all over again.

and that's where he finds me, that man who has cradled you since you were moments old,

finds me fighting against waves of pain that really have nothing to do with plates that have broken.


he holds me 

and like he did all those years ago in that space of time that was just him and i,

before we became three.

he reminds me how to breathe with him.

reminds me of what is truly important.

and the pain rolls over a cupboard that only hold 5 dinner plates and a silverware tray that cradles different amounts of forks and knives and spoons,

it builds over families broken and changes and moves and a life that sometimes, still, seems unrecognizable.

and the water breaks over a daughter tall and beautiful and tomboy and princess and when did those pages on that calendar turn so quickly?


and he reminds me of your great-gramma,

the one whose bible rests on my nightstand,

the one who left one country for the one of her husband,

the one whose life was not defined by her brokenness

but defined by the One Who restores.


and as it all burns, these moments that build and threaten to seem like too much,

your daddy points me to the One Who holds new life in His scarred Hands.


six years ago, my lyla mae,

you were placed in my arms,

alert and quiet,

hands and feet tinged blue,

and tiny black ringlets all over your head.

you sit now beside me,

lost in sunlight and a living testament that He can bring someone beautiful

from someone so completely broken -

this life of mine, by all accounts,  that should be reduced to ash.


and instead,

you are my picture of hope.

of joy.

a reflection of His Beauty.


you turn six years old today,

and sleep through that moment that finds you leaving five behind.

but i captured it as i knelt by your bed.

as you move from holding up only one hand to two,

i knelt close and held that moment even closer.


and i pray, my sweet baby girl,

that you will learn to breathe through the moments meant to bring you into a new life with Him.


that you will learn to see that He uses all things to open your eyes to the new life that He longs for you to have.


that when the pain becomes more than you think you can bear, 

that you will cling to Him tighter,

relax into Him deeper,

and allow Him to take what is messy and form it into something breathtaking.

you have been more than i ever expected,

you have changed me in ways i never dreamed possible.

and today you turn six years old.

happy birthday, sweet lyla mae.

i love you more than i can ever say, but will spend my lifetime showing you just how much.


all of my love,

mama.