She Was Born

Look at that child.

Blithely, carefree in her tangled morning hair and cherry-juice-stained cheeks, she dotes on her plastic baby doll in the dusty sunlight, oblivious to your gaze.

Oatmeal chunks still grip her shirt, and chipped, sparkly blue nail polish completes the effect of absolute and total perfection.

This is what it is to know a life, to know down to the guts in your bones this creature so unlike anyone else; to observe from the recesses of your heart this life so familiar and yet so impossibly foreign at the same time.

She has never happened before; this is newness in all its raw, confounding glory walking in flesh about your very own house like a symphony and a daydream all at once, like a whole new world.

Of course, you have dreams for her, you have hopes, and desires, but they must all bend in the light of who she is already made to be.

This moment, this present expression of her life in all its expansive multi-dimensional beauty, is the only place you can experience who she is.

Pause the rush.

Full stop.

If you will let her, she will slip through your fingers into the freedom that is her own life, cultivated by the hands of her good, good Father.

Don’t limit her to your plans, your comfort zone, your tidy boxes of status quo doldrums.

She was born to do something no one else has done before.

How could you possibly know what that should look like, strategize appropriately, and plan for it, except to study her and to set her free?

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