I should be writing a Sunday school lesson on gossip right now. But I've lost my focus and starting to wonder if I ever had it to begin with. I opened up my blogger dashboard and figured I would just write. Do I have anything on my mind to write on? No. Just the keys, my fingers, a coffee shop, and a cup of decaf getting cold because I didn't really want coffee but was fearful of being the coffee squatter free loader.
Today is Saturday. David is home painting with the help of friends. M is at a friends house playing thanks to my sweet friends offering to take care off/entertain her for a few hours.
My sweet M. She is a rambunctious joy. A live spirit fueled by curiosity, affection, and a good dash of stubborn will. A beautiful recipe for a little girl. I might be biased, but I'm so proud and honored to know her. And what?! Get to be her mom too! I pray for patience with her. I pray for wisdom to lead her. I pray for grace and mercy that my own sins and failures won't affect her. I put her in danger of them everyday. I want to be her friend. I want to be her mommy. But mostly, I want to reflect Jesus to her. I want to do the hard things for her. Sacrifice for her. Wrap her up in sheaths of steal protection and yet at the same time, let her break and be reformed by the loving hand of God as he yearns for her to become more and more and more and more like Himself.
And a boy shall come. A boy. A BOY. What to do with a boy? Love him. That's all I know. Let him be a boy. Whatever that means. Let him be Henry. The baby, the boy, the man that God knew before he formed the heavens and the earth. I am his shepherd and steward. His Mommy. I will hold him and love him and whisper to him closely that he is immensely loved beyond measure. I haven't yet grasped that he will be here so soon. That in my arms I will hold creation. In all its perfectness and imperfections and beauty and wonder.
I will rock him in my arms as I sway my hips. These hips of mine that haven't stopped swaying since that day my angel love was born over two year ago. In times where I needed comfort for myself I find that I'm unconsciously swaying to and fro, even when I hold no child. They sway. These hips that work through the pain of being 8 months pregnant. The same ones that carried me through high school athletics and now boast beautiful, yes - beautiful!, stretch marks. My hips that were meant to do exactly this, exactly this way, exactly for this child. I'm thankful for my hips.
And my sweet husband. At home he labors. Day and night. With urgency and desire and sacrifice and devotion, he labors. I am in awe of you my love. I hate the ways I fail to acknowledge you affection and diligence and only ask for more. I love you more every day and pray that I would seek to love you more and better as we grow together. Never apathetic. Never ungrateful. Never carelessly. But with ernest passion and an abundance of deep desire to serve you and love you and sacrifice for you in thankfulness.
Now it seems as if I could write forever. Do free writes have to have a clear stop point / conclusion?
Or do I just....