When my girl, my lone girl in a small pile of boys, was born, she came out bruised and battered and feeling heavy in my arms with over ten pounds of new, warm flesh. A daughter. We learned of it in that moment, when all along I had thought deep in my heart that for sure we would have another son. A daughter, like I am the daughter of my mother, and she the daughter of hers. And all the narratives came crashing down, surrounding me and I wondered what story would be hers, would be ours. It's not often that I take time to sit and reflect on the life of one of my children, the gift of their beginning and the way they came to our family, mulling over the ups and down of their personhood and praying over who they are and what they are becoming. Today I held her in my mind, suspended over the years of knowing her, and the years that are to come, and gave thanks for her. To try and describe her almost feels like an injustice, because I am still mining, still watching, still learning, through muddles and trippings and sweet moments where the waters part a little and I see a part of her heart that is precious and holy, ground I am unworthy to walk on, where too often I tread heavily, stomping about with too little care. But this girl, this daughter, a gift from heaven, is no less than that-- a treasure entrusted. And today she turned seven.
