I am too much about myself

Maybe I feel most alive when I can taste the “not yet” part of being human, when I can get inside my soul and wrestle specters like they’re real — like their teeth are tangible so that believing they can be beaten means something more than an abstract run-on sentence.

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the bravery of a small life

I can see her eyelashes, all of them, when she says that last word. We heave breaths together, sweat mingled on all the arms. Yes, sweet girl. When there is ugly anger inside us it is incredibly hard to be kind. Almost, even impossible. She ducks into my skin, curls up and whispers, "I'm jealous." I know, I say. And I hold them both like two wiggly fish on my lap on the floor in front of all the front windows.

It is broken to be human and it is human to be broken.

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oh, this Love that will not let me go

Her legs dangle down to my knees. I catch my breath, from both her weight and her new dangling reach. I guess I never thought her limbs would get this long, never thought her body would stretch out of the folded-up position under my chin. I never thought kissing that precious spot on the bridge of her nose would be a rare treat.

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so clinging near

"I love you and I want you to come here and I don't want you to die," she said, "write that to her." I filtered. I decided it wasn't the kind of uplifting message we wanted to communicate to Zella's library teacher, Miss Lisa. But as her crazy, fly-away (three day old) top knot bounced with her squealing excitement to deliver the message, I knew I would have to tell Miss Lisa the whole thing. Zella does not want her to die and that is a wonderful thing to want for a person. A beautiful and pure and human thing to want for a person.

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chasing after wind

"I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind." Ecclesiastes 1:14

She clung to my shoulders with her arms and knees, her neck wrapped on mine as the fountain misted our backs and absorbed our squeals. As soon as the wind changed, she anticipated the next mist and around the Bailey Fountain we went - a blurred, bouncing spectacle for the tourists posing in front of the mysterious, mythological scene. The sun beat down just as the mist dewed our faces and there are no photos of our delight. It lived so perfectly in that moment, just after 12 noon on a Tuesday.

Her little, tumbling giggle surprised us both. It was almost too generous - too full and wild. And, if I was guessing, I would say this is a little bit why little children can come to Jesus. 

This full and wild generosity of a child is unrestrained - like their Maker, ready to unleash lavish goodness in response to beauty and in the middle of delight.
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