Becoming More - The Quiet Miracle of Motherhood

 "She’s clothed with strength and dignity, laughing without fear of the future." ~ Proverbs 31:25

She didn’t notice the moment it began.

Not the first cry, not the first time little Isabella’s fingers wrapped around hers, not even the first sleepless night that blurred into morning. It started in the stillness between heartbeats, when Camilla’s world shifted and she became someone new, without realizing the old version of herself had stepped aside.

Before all of that, there had been fear. In the days before delivery, Camilla wondered what it would cost her. She worried about losing herself—her time, her freedom, the pieces of her identity. People spoke of sacrifice as beautiful, but to her, it felt uncertain. Would she still recognize herself? Would anything remain beyond “mother”?

She carried many questions tucked beneath the excitement of tiny, folded clothes in drawers.

Now, eight months later, she knew that motherhood isn’t a single moment, but thousands of tiny miracles stitched together. Like when Isabella looked up at her Mom as if she painted the moon, even on days when she tight roped the edge. How a simple “Mama” could soften the toughest moments. Magic came from those syllables, more powerful than anything she’d ever known.

There were ordinary wonders, too.

Camilla learned to read each cry—hungry, overwhelmed, tired—language only she could translate. She carried more than she believed possible, discovering strength she never trained for. Time bent around her; nights felt endless, yet years passed in a blink.

And there was subtle grace few recognized: how love could exist outside her body, how fear and pride could live side by side—fear of pain, pride in every small step.

Camilla realized something unexpected: she hadn’t disappeared. Her former self still lived within her—stronger, deeper, expanded. The sacrifices hadn’t erased her; they had reshaped her, stretching her capacity for love, patience, and resilience.

Some days were messy. There were tears, forgotten plans, moments of doubt. But even then, something remarkable remained: the ability to keep going, to love without perfection.

Motherhood isn’t about perfection. It’s about showing up—again and again—with open arms and a tired smile, finding beauty in chaos, laughter in the noise, and purpose in the smallest moments.

One night, when the house was finally at rest, Camilla stood in the doorway watching Isabella sleep. The room was still, except for the soft rhythm of breathing. And she understood what had been building all along: she had not just raised a child.

She, too, had grown—stronger than she imagined, softer than she thought possible, braver than she ever needed to be. And wasn’t that, perhaps, the very reason we are here? In that quiet, ordinary moment, she knew motherhood wasn’t just something amazing she experienced. It was something amazing she became.

Holy Father, thank You for the gift of motherhood—the beauty, the challenges, and the quiet moments in between. Thank You for the strength You provide when days feel long, and for the love that fills our hearts beyond measure. Amen

The Wounded Healer

“My grace is sufficient for you, for My power is made perfect in weakness.” ~ 2 Corinthians 12:9

From her first breath, agony was a constant companion that never sought permission.

The doctors diagnosed it as severe arthritis—a cruel inheritance that staked its claim in her infant joints. By her first steps, she’d already learned to endure. In her first prayer, she decided that while pain might live in her bones, it would never own her voice.

Her body moved with a measured caution. Mornings were a battlefield of stiff fingers and defiant knees, yet Heidi never surrendered to bitterness. She didn't ignore the fire within; she simply refused to let it consume her spirit. “It’s there,” she’d whisper, “but I’m OK.”

Her home became a sanctuary for the fractured. Stray dogs found her porch. Broken-winged birds and discarded cats felt the loving warmth of her touch. She named them all, fed them before herself, and nursed broken bodies and frightened hearts with unwavering kindness.

People, too—broken men, souls shadowed by addiction, anger, or physical ruin. While others saw danger, Heidi saw kin. Friends warned, “You give too much!” She’d offer a weary smile. “Maybe, but isn’t that the point?”

She didn’t fix them all. Some left better. Some were unchanged. None left unseen. And to Heidi, that was enough.

For 25 years as an occupational therapist, she helped others reclaim small victories—buttoning a shirt, holding a spoon, writing a name. She understood frustration, so she met it with grace. “Try again,” she’d say. “Not because you have to. Because I know you can.”

Her life echoed the witness of the Apostle Paul—bearing his own tribulations while building a kingdom. Heidi never needed a pulpit, but her example reflected a similar truth: suffering and purpose are not opposites. Love, chosen daily, becomes its own testament to Jesus Christ.

In later years, the pain worsened. Her hands curled more tightly. Her eyes began to fail and walking became nearly impossible. Some days, there was little left for her to do but remain, yet her hope remained undeterred.

One evening, a former patient came to see her—a man who once struggled to hold a cup, now carried one steadily to her bedside. “You changed my life,” he said.

Heidi smiled. “No,” she whispered. “You fought. I just held the light so you could find the way.”

When she left this world far too soon, the world didn’t stop—it just cooled a little. Her absence lived on in recovered strength, renewed spirits, and the happy sighs of rescued pets.

Pain had been her permanent shadow—but never her legacy. That belonged to something far greater—the stubborn defiance to love anyway, without condition or guarantee.

Father God, thank You for lives that shine with fortitude; not in comfort, but in compassion. Teach us to love as Heidi did, to see others not for what they lack, but for who they are in You. In our own weakness, remind us that Your strength is enough. Amen

He Gets Us

 “I can do all this through Him who gives me strength.” ~ Philippians 4:13

Derek confidently settled into the starting blocks for the 400m sprint at the ’92 Barcelona Olympics. His mind flashed back to the heartbreak of an Achilles rupture four years earlier in Seoul, followed by eight grueling surgeries. This was his moment—his redemption.

The stating pistol fired. For 150 meters, he was a blur of grace and power, driving to the early lead… until his left hamstring exploded. Derek clutched the back of his thigh as if he’d been shot, collapsing onto the track in agony. For a moment, everything stood still.

Forcing himself to his feet, he limped forward unsteadily. The famed British record holder realized that his Olympic dream had evaporated in the Spanish heat. 

Officials rushed toward him with a stretcher. He waved them off, his face etched with pain and resolve. Eyeing a finish line that seemed miles away, Derek spotted his father, Jim, vaulting a railing, bolting past a security, and running toward him. This day, neither father nor son would be denied.

Imagine Jim’s agony, helplessly watching his son run the most important 45 seconds of his life, crash under the weight of another injury. Every hour of training, every sacrifice, every dream crushed in that single, tragic moment.

“Derek,” Jim said tenderly, placing a steadying arm around him, “you don’t have to do this.”

Wincing with every step, Derek shook his head, “Dad… I just need to finish.”

Jim nodded. “Then we’ll finish it together.” They moved as one—a father bearing his son’s weight for the final 100m, a son refusing to surrender. When they crossed the finish line, a crown of 65,000 spectators rose to their feet, their thunderous applause drowning out the pain.

Few recall that an American won the race. But the world remembers the moment Derek Redmond refused to quit.

Like Derek, the Apostle Paul, was no stranger to pain, hardships, and setbacks. In his mission to share the Gospel, he endured beatings, imprisonment, hunger, exhaustion, and constant danger. Yet he pressed on, determined to finish the race God set before him.

That’s the picture of faith. Life will wound us. It’ll knock us down, leave us limping, questioning how we can possibly go on. But we are never abandoned on the track.

Our Heavenly Father does not remain distant in the stands. He steps into our pain. He breaks through our barriers. He meets us in our weakness.

He understands—because He carried the cross first.

When you feel like you can’t take another step, remember this: God isn’t just waiting at the finish line. Through Christ, He is beside you—strengthening you, sustaining you, and, when needed, carrying you all the way home.

Lord Jesus, when You faced hatred and cruelty, You responded with patience and love. Teach me to walk in Your footsteps - to endure with grace, to love without limits, and to join the great cloud of witnesses who cheer us on, affirming our progress. Amen

Owning Her Uniqueness

 “We are God’s masterpiece, created for a specific purpose. ” ~ Ephesians 2:10

Before Khara could even sit up, she was diagnosed with Septo-Optic Dysplasia (SOD), a rare disorder that prevents the optic nerves from fully developing. She would never see light, colors, or faces.

From that point on, she faced skeptical adults. Her parents worried about their child’s future—her ability to learn and live independently. The pediatrician cautioned that her quality of life would be “extremely challenging.” Others predicted a long list of things she wouldn’t be able to do because of her blindness. They saw a tragedy; Khara saw a canvas.

Where others were limited by what they saw, Khara was expanded by what she felt. She sensed the changing seasons often before her friends did. The scent of crisp leaves drifting through the air signaled autumn. She heard the arrival of spring in the distinct pitch of a returning bird’s song. An electric shift in the breeze signaled rain before the first cloud appeared.

Still, not everyone believed in her abilities.

When Khara entered middle school, the gym teacher discouraged her from joining the track team “for her own safety.” But Khara knew the real danger wasn’t a scraped knee—it was a stifled spirit. Every stride became a declaration that other people’s expectations were not her reality.

At thirteen, Khara stood before a sea of people she couldn't see, but whose hearts she was about to move. Her middle school graduation speech wasn't just a farewell; it was a manifesto. Speaking with remarkable maturity, she described what it was like navigating a world that wasn’t designed for her, sharing quips that tested her and the strength she gained along the way.

"At times I felt like a misfit, sometimes even to myself," she said. But the heart of her message was clear: "Being different is not something to hide - it's something to own." Her blindness hadn’t defined her, but it had shaped her courage and resilience.

Khara reminded the audience that strength doesn’t always look dramatic. Sometimes it appears in quieter moments—getting out of bed on a difficult day or trying again after failure.

True strength, she said, comes from the courage to be yourself. “Whatever your story, own it! Whatever makes you different, celebrate it! Don’t simply blend in… STAND OUT! And never dim your light just because someone else is uncomfortable with how brightly you shine.”

The auditorium erupted with loud cheers and thundering applause. Khara hadn’t just delivered a speech—she’d reminded everyone what courage looks like.

Khara’s story didn’t end on that stage. Today, she is a passionate advocate, proving that inclusion isn’t just a “nice idea”—it’s essential for a thriving society. As the 2023 National Miss Amazing Preteen Queen, she uses her platform to ensure that every girl with a disability knows she is a masterpiece.

Creator God, pray for an inclusive spirit in our hearts and communities. Help us welcome and value everyone, regardless of their background or circumstances, and especially those overlooked or marginalized. Amen

Brick by Brick

 “Facing trials of many kinds produce perseverance.” ~ James 1:2-3

The ribbon lived in a drawer he never opened. It was red—second place. To eleven-year-old Caleb, that meant second loser.

His science fair volcano had buckled moments before judging, the baking soda fizzing with a weak, apologetic hiss. The judges offered pitying smiles while his best friend took gold with a solar system that actually lit up. That night, Caleb shoved the ribbon into the dark and told his mother he didn’t care. But of course—he did.

Years later, that lie became a refrain—when he was cut from varsity, when his first love chose "friendship," and when the landscaping business he launched at twenty-three withered under a brutal drought and a dead truck transmission. Each blow felt like a verdict stamped in red ink: “Not good enough.” Each time, he considered quitting.

After the business collapsed, he took a job stocking hardware shelves. He called it "temporary," though the fluorescent lights felt like a permanent sentence. At night, he dissected his ghosts: he should have charged more, marketed more aggressively, prayed bigger.

One afternoon, an older man asked about soil. Caleb walked him through nitrogen levels, drainage, and the stubborn defiance of clay. The man watched him intently. "You know your craft," he remarked. "You ever do any consulting?"

Caleb almost laughed.  “Used to,”  he muttered, recalling his bankrupt LLC.

The man nodded slowly. "Sounds like you earned your degree the hard way."

The words haunted Caleb. He began sketching garden plans for neighbors on weekends—no overhead, just drawings and hard-won wisdom. When something failed, he adjusted. When a yard flooded, he recalculated the slope. When anything died, he treated the autopsy as a lesson.

He kept failing, smaller now. Sharper. More instructive.

The consulting grew. Then he added a small team and gained a reputation for fixing “impossible” landscapes that could endure heat, flood, and neglect.

At a small business awards banquet, one he never imagined attending, someone asked him the secret of his success. He thought of the red ribbon. The volcano. The truck that wouldn’t start. "Failure," Caleb replied.

The room chuckled, mistaking his honesty for humility. He didn't join in. Failure had been the fire that burned away his ego and tempered his judgment. It grounded him in the hard realities of the terrain. Every setback had cleared the ground for something stronger.

Driving home that night, Caleb revisited the mental drawer where he’d tucked away his misfires and defeats. They no longer felt like scars; they looked like bricks. And brick by brick, those "misfires" had built the foundation he now stood upon.

Failure, he realized, had never been the opposite of success. It was part of it.

Heavenly Father, thank You for love that endures, for promises that don’t break, and for the hope of reunion beyond this life. Teach us to love faithfully, to trust You fully, and to live in ways that prepare us for eternity. Amen

A Tree of Memories

 "Those who trust the Lord will find new strength and soar high like eagles." – Isaiah 40:31

Dale knelt in the soft spring soil, small hands caked with mud, his heart pounding with the kind of excitement only a child knows. That Arbor Day, he’d planted a fragile sapling in the park, whispering a prayer over the baby leaves: “Grow strong and live long,” hoping its life would outlast his own footsteps.

Decades later, Dale returned to the park with his great-grandson, Brian. The little boy skipped ahead, pointing out squirrels and flowers, his laughter echoing through  the trees. Dale scanned the landscape for a familiar trunk, but its memory had been swallowed by time.

Nothing looked familiar. Around him, immense oaks rose like ancient sentinels, their gnarled roots twisting into the earth, branches forming a cathedral of emerald shadows.  

Dale rubbed his eyes, sadness softening him. “How could these trees be so old? Where’s my tree?”

His legs felt heavy. He peered at every trunk, searching for a sign, a scar, or a bend in a branch he might recognize. But everything felt foreign. The disappointment wasn't just about a tree; it was the fear that the seeds he’d planted—his work, his prayers, his love—had simply been buried by the decades.

Then, a burst of laughter shattered the gloom.

Dale spun around. There, above him, perched on a sturdy, sun-drenched limb, Brian sat grinning. “Is this your tree?” Brian called down, as if daring Dale to hope.

The old man approached the tree. It wasn't one of the ancient, somber giants. It was a tree in its prime—vibrant, its leaves shimmering in sunlight. As Dale pressed his weathered palms against the bark, a strange warmth surged through him. The texture felt right. "Well," Dale whispered, a smile finally breaking across his face, “maybe it is."

The boy climbed down, and together they circled the trunk.  "It’s awesome," Brian said excitedly.

Dale knelt, his knees creaking, and pulled the boy close. "You know, Brian... God and I planted this tree together."

Brian tilted his head, eyes wide. "God helped you? Like, with a shovel?"

Dale chuckled. "In a way. Every seed we plant, every act of love or faith… He makes it grow. Even when we forget, or the years pass, or the world changes… He remembers. He tends to them. And when the time is right, He gives the shade of that tree to someone else."

As they walked back to the car, Dale glanced back at the tree glowing in the afternoon sun. It stood as a living bridge between his childhood and Brian’s future. Their blessed  tree—his and God’s together— was more than bark and leaves; it was faith, hope, and love made visible, living on far beyond him, in the hearts of those who would follow.

Heavenly Father, thank You for the seeds You plant in our hearts. When the world feels overgrown and we lose our way, remind us that nothing grown in Your name is ever lost. Help me to nurture my life with love. Amen

First Class Kindness

 “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit.” ~ Philippians 2:3

Carl got to the airport late. Traffic, furloughed TSA agents, and threatening weather put him fearfully behind schedule. His anxiety rose like an Alaskan tide – swift, strong, and unstoppable.

When he found his middle seat near the tail end of the Boeing 737, Carl made a mental note to scold his assistant for such dreadful travel arrangements. His hope of seizing the empty aisle seat in front of him was quickly extinguished by a confused, elderly woman struggling to navigate her way down the aisle. Her frailty brought a momentary halt to the cabin’s pre-flight hustle.

“Could this day get any worse?” Carl impatiently thought to himself. Other passengers, too, grew irritable and restless as the octogenarian’s challenges delayed Friday afternoon’s takeoff.

At that moment, a man in First Class summoned the flight attendant. Instead of complaining about the holdup, he had something else in mind… and offered a touching solution.

“Will you please let her sit in my seat?” he gestured, meaning he’d take hers instead!

Carl’s mood instantly softened. Hostility melted away, giving way to benevolence and acceptance. The man’s unexpected selflessness reverberated throughout the cabin, reminding everyone of the enduring power of empathy and kindness.

The flight attendant helped facilitate the seat exchange. The older woman’s gratitude was obvious. “No one has ever done that for me in my 87 years. Thank you!” she uttered, her words echoing deep appreciation.

Upon reflection, Carl felt shame for his hurtful feelings. He’d let the day’s chaos and uncertainty cloud his thoughts and behavior. Maybe if he were kinder to others, he’d foster more meaningful relationships! He vowed (once again) to try harder and look for opportunities to extend Christ’s love and compassion to those around him.

That gentleman didn’t need fanfare - he saw a need and met it, serving the kindness we all crave. We’re all capable of kindness, yet we often restrict it to a select few: our children, family, pets, and others dear to us. If we’re capable of extending kindness to them, nothing stops us from being kind to others... except a will to do so.

In a world often dominated by headlines of controversy, scandal, and self-interest, it’s refreshing to be reminded that kindness, even the smallest gesture, still has the power to surprise us. Holding the door open for someone, offering a genuine smile, or listening to someone in need can make a difference – in both of us!

When individuals experience kindness, they are more likely to pay it forward and extend the same warmth and compassion to others. This ripple effect often creates a chain reaction, touching the lives of countless individuals and potentially transforming communities. While it costs nothing, its value might be immeasurable.

My Lord, even when I don’t feel gratitude in my heart, I still praise and thank You. I pray that You will continue to soften my heart in such a way that I will fully love in the way You’ve called me to love. Amen

Step By Step

 "Trust the Lord with all your heart; don’t lean on your own understanding." ~ Proverbs 3:5

Elijah tightened his grip on the umbrella as rain dripped into his shoes. The bus hadn’t come and he  was running out of time.

There was no choice, so he started walking.

An umbrella gave some cover, but squeaking wet shoes echoed his life’s recent chaos. He lost his job three months earlier. Two weeks later, his fiancé left quietly leaving her ring on the counter. She’d said he was too cautious—always waiting for certainty. Now even he thought so, realizing he’d been too risk-averse, always waiting for the “right” moment to act.

The rain stung his face and dripped off his back as he tried calculating distance, time, even the odds of making it. It reminded him how little control he really had—today and in the future. Still, he kept moving. Standing in the cold rain at an empty stop felt worse than moving forward and risking failure.

At the bridge, he paused, watching the river swell. It swirled around rocks and bends—unpredictable, yet always moving forward, and that was enough.

He pushed on. Around him, the town moved as usual: a shop opened its doors, someone carried boxes inside, a runner splashed past without hesitation. None of them looked certain—they were just doing the next thing. Somehow, that felt right.

Halfway there, his legs ached. He checked the time again. He might still make it if he pushed a little harder. Anxiety didn’t leave, but hope, even small and fragile, was enough. For the first time in weeks, “maybe” felt OK.

By the time he reached the office building, his pants clung uncomfortably, but with every splash, he had kept moving forward anyway. He gave his name at reception.

“Elijah Carter. I’m here for the account manager interview.” The receptionist frowned. “I’m sorry, that position… has been filled.”

Elijah froze. Nearly two miles in the rain—for nothing. He let out a slow breath, the familiar weight of disappointment settling in, threatening to crush him. Of course.

Before he could turn away, a woman stepped out from the back office. “Mr. Carter? I’m with HR. We’ve been trying to reach you. A senior leadership role just opened, with more responsibility and a higher salary. We think you might be a strong fit.”

Elijah blinked, disbelief and relief flooding him. Gratitude rose in his chest, so sudden it took his breath. He had kept moving without knowing what would happen, without proof it would lead anywhere. And now—this was real. Not magic. Not luck. Just the reward of showing up when it would’ve been easier not to.

He removed his coat and followed her, one step at time—no longer waiting for certainty.

Father God, thank You for guiding me through every wet, uncertain step. Give me courage to keep moving, persevere through doubt, and trust Your timing. Strengthen my heart to walk faithfully, step by step, knowing You are shaping this journey for my good. Amen

The Oath That Never Ends

 "There’s no greater love than to lay down your life for your friends." ~ John 15:13  

When floods ravaged his town in 1997, taking homes and lives, Elias spent weeks helping neighbors. That’s when he realized he wanted to be trained, prepared, and ready to respond whenever danger struck - and he joined the US Marine Corps.

Now, 27 years and three deployments later, Captain Elias Green folded his uniform with the same care he’d used with his rifle. He smoothed the sleeves, aligned the ribbons, and traced a small tear near the cuff, recalling the battles it’d seen. He carefully set the box on the closet’s top shelf.

It felt strange - but it was time.

He took a job at the hardware store, learning SKUs instead of coordinates. He coached Little League, teaching boys to square their shoulders, follow through, and keep their eyes on the ball.

The town stopped calling him “Captain.” He became simply Elias - the steady man who greeted customers by name and kept the shop clean and well organized.

Beneath the ordinary rhythm of civilian life, the soldier remained. He still rose before sunrise, scanned every room, and believed that when something needed doing, you stepped forward whether anyone was watching or not.

Thursday, Elias was washing his truck when a grinding crash split the air. A tractor-trailer had jackknifed on the highway bridge. Black smoke coiled into the sky as neighbors froze, watching the flames climb. Someone shouted that the driver remained trapped.

Elias felt a familiar surge - quick assessment, narrowing focus.  For a heartbeat, comfort tempted him to stand down; he was no longer active duty. Duty prevailed. He sprinted.

Heat stung his face as he climbed the embankment. The cab was crushed, glass fractured like ice. Inside, a young man struggled against his seatbelt, panic widening his eyes.

“Stay with me,” Elias said, gripping the twisted door.

Metal groaned under his pull. Smoke thickened. He drew on every reserve he’d built - on obstacle courses, in distant deserts, under heavier fire than this. The door tore free as flames licked the engine block. He cut the belt, dragged the driver clear, and rolled with him down the gravel embankment moments before the cab exploded in a violent bloom of orange.

Later, wrapped in a blanket on the curb, Elias breathed slowly. Sirens faded. The mayor clasped his shoulder. “You’re a hero.”

Elias shook his head. “Nah, just did what I’ve trained to do.”

That night, his wife noticed the box had been taken down. His uniform remained folded inside, but she understood what had never changed.

A soldier’s oath is forever. It’s not defined by years served, but sworn in a lifetime of honor, discipline, and courage - long after the uniform retires to the shadows.

Heavenly Father, thank You for those who choose honor over comfort and courage over fear. Help us stand firm in integrity, act when others hesitate, and serve faithfully in the quiet places of life. Amen

Lily's First Easter

 “Whatever is good and perfect comes to us from the Heavenly Father.” ~ James 1:17

The morning light slipped gently through the curtains, painting soft patterns across the nursery walls. It was Lily’s first Easter, though she didn’t know it. At six months old, the world still blurred of colors, sounds, and warm bottles that always seemed to arrive just when she needed them.

Her mother lifted her from the crib with a quiet laugh. “Happy first Easter, little Angel,” Marie whispered, pressing a kiss to Lily’s soft hair. The sweet infant responded with a warm smile, her tiny hands reaching for the sunlight dancing on the ceiling.

Downstairs, the house hummed with excitement. After her morning bottle and a fresh diaper, Lily sat in her play area. A woven basket was placed before her, filled with two indestructible Easter books and a soft plush bunny with floppy ears.

Her tiny fingers brushed against the books, pulling the bunny close. She grabbed it clumsily, gumming its floppy ear with delight. Her parents laughed quietly, watching every expression.

“Well,” Marie chuckled, “that’s a 5-star review.”

Daniel, her Dad, had tucked a handful of colorful plastic eggs around the room—beside the couch cushion, near the leg of the coffee table, and within reach on a soft blanket spread across the rug.

“Ready for your first Easter hunt?” Daniel urged, lowering himself to the floor with her.

Lily sat unsteadily, her attention caught by the nearest egg—a red one glinting in the bright light. She leaned forward, wobbling, and tapped it with her hand. It rolled slightly, and she froze, utterly transfixed, as if she'd just discovered something magical.

“Well, look at that,” Marie whispered, placing it gently into her hands. Lily turned it over, studying it with deep concentration before bringing it, of course, to her mouth.

They moved slowly from one egg to another, not so much searching as discovering—each one a small moment, each reaction worth more than anything hidden inside.

They took way too many pictures—capturing Lily’s curious gaze, her drooling smile, and the way she seemed equally fascinated by the multi-colored eggs.

Later, the house grew quiet again, filled with the lingering scent of spring. Lily rested against Marie’s chest, her tiny body rising and falling in sleepy rhythm. The basket sat nearly-forgotten on the table, the eggs scattered, the decorations already beginning to feel like part of yesterday.

“Lily won’t remember any of this,” Daniel offered softly.

“No,” Marie replied, brushing a hand over Lily’s back, “but we certainly will.”

Lily stirred slightly, her fingers curling as if holding onto something unseen. Perhaps it was nothing more than a dream. Or perhaps, in her own quiet way, she was holding onto the feeling—the warmth, the laughter, the love that filled her very first Easter.

Heavenly Father, Thank You for the joy of new life and first moments. Bless all the children with love, laughter, and hearts that long to know You. May each day be filled with wonder, and may Your light guide every step. Amen