We’re not made for this, you and I. The nerves, the waiting, the walls closing in.
We sit and breathe deeply, wondering what our tomorrow holds. What the next months have for us.
You don’t notice me, but our lives have been knit close during this season.
Our stories on a collision course, driven together by a tiny sweet babe.
She was taken from your arms, but not given fully into mine.
So we wait. Together, you and I, but yet worlds apart.
I see you there, outside the court room with hands clenched tight.
She has your nose. I watched it crinkle as a smile erupted across her face this morning. She lay in her crib, babbling softly in the morning light.
I wish I could tell you how she slept soundly last night. That she’s growing, her cheeks filling in. Her frame rounding from sharp corners to soft lines. I’d tell you she carries such joy with her.
Everyone she meets is touched by her ways.
She’s resilient, a fighter. Her tiny shoulders carry strength and promise. She scoots around my kitchen with a determined strength that I pray characterizes her as she grows.
I see it in you too, in your strong fight.
Tonight I’ll hold her close.
I’ll pray hard over her and thank Him for how she blesses us. I’ll keep her in open hands.
Hold her loosely, but with a love that’s bold and complete.
I wonder, when I let her go…will it be your arms that hold her tight?
I know this answer, as sure as the sun will rise again tomorrow.
I’ll find her there then, reaching toward it’s rays splashing over her crib.
The one that spoke that sun into existence…it’s His arms that will hold her tight.