A Spring of Joy

This morning has been a simple morning. A quiet morning.

Bri, rising in the dark to work downstairs and letting me sleep in. Sweet whispers from a baby girl, “Mommy, where’s Daddy?” She hates coming in our room and missing him, so she runs downstairs to be with him and find protection from the train whose whistle blows in the distance. I roll over and can’t fall back to sleep so I read for a while.

When I come down, there is worship music filling our downstairs. Boys are still sleeping and Bella is drawing on the computer. Bri is typing furiously… so much work to do.

I fix my coffee and I curl up to catch up on blogs and news and email for the day. And I read some more, sitting with my quote book filling it with more words that speak to me.

Then, every couple minutes, she calls, “Mommy, come look at my submarine I painted!” or “Come see my silly octopus!” So I put down my computer or my book and I get up and I come.

You would think… I would think… I would tire of this. This not getting to do what I want to do without interruption.

But every time I see her face waiting for me to see, my heart melts. This light in her eyes and joy bringing her one dimple to the surface. She is waiting. Waiting to laugh and waiting for love from her Mommy.

And I delight in giving it to her. I love to show her how much she pleases me.

Then I think about my Father.

I think He’s that way, too. Delighted when we call to Him.

So often I think He must tire of me calling to Him with the same old needs, same old struggles, same old fears. Some days just calling Him to be sure He’s there–to remind myself that I believe He’s there. That is my insecurity speaking.

But He doesn’t tire of me. He comes. He joins in my life and he rejoices in me.

And He never tires of showing me how pleased He is with me.

Because I am His child. And that’s enough.

Just a few moments ago, she called me for the last time. “Come see my funny alien, Mommy!” So I stopped writing and I came, and the reward of her laughter about did me in. She rested her head on my arm and laughed her hoarse little laugh. Then she whispered, “I love you, Mommy.” And she ran off to join the commotion upstairs… boys up and singing and dancing and yelling and loud.

Oh, y’all, this is so not about me.

And I’m thankful.