Posted by on May 13, 2013 in Uncategorized | 6 comments

mothers-day-flowers-card

i.

Heavy lids plead for rest so she finally relents, ready for bed
before 9:00 p.m.; her four-month internship had ended with a 10-hour
drive home that started at midnight. Full and yet empty, she’s
exhausted, spent…overwhelmed.

I give thanks for Providence and Grace:  though we hadn’t realized it when we were planning so long ago, she was home in time for Mother’s Day weekend.

 

ii.

Earlier that morning I had waited at the top of our drive so I could
see her the second she rounded the corner.  Her car was barely in park
when she flung open the door and popped out.  We hugged close and snug,
the way women know how to.  “You look beautiful, baby!” I declare to her and the world, and she says, “Mama, you’re so skinny!”

Our language is love and the air simmers with words –I’ve missed so much, and she
has lots to tell.  A  day’s worth is just the beginning.  Our eyes fill
with tears half a dozen times; revelation and revolution will do that.

She yawned during dinner and conceded the long night’s drive must
have caught up with her.  It is her way is to make sure we won’t be
offended if she heads to bed early so we shoo her in that direction.  

“Want me to tuck you in?  Sing to you?” and we both laugh and she says, “Sunshine“.

“…dun-dine….”  I hear it the way she said it at three.  She burrows under her covers and scoots to the edge, silent invitation to join her.

We’re fleshy spoons, her body cupped into mine, and she’s purring while my nails draw hearts on her back.  “That feels so gooood….” I can barely hear, her words lost in a pillowy muffler.

My babygirl is home!  Never more have I tipped a toe in the Prodigal father’s shoes–mercy
I can only imagine his elation, the way his soul and spirit danced.  
All day long I haven’t been able to stop looking at her, touching her,
talking with and listening to this familiar stranger in my daughter’s
body.  She looks the same and different; her inside has grown so much I
can tell it on the outside.

I keep thinking about when my hand covered her entire newborn back. 
How is it possible 20 years separate then and now?!  I wish my
superpower was not blinking.

 

iii.

“I’m astounded by the miracle of it,” I whisper. 

 

* * *

 

I love this reflection in writing but when I read it out loud to my daughter, I liked it even better–her reaction was a huge paycheck :).  Anyway, I hope you'll continue reading Miracle Worker at Deeper Story / Family today, and share it with a miracle in your life ~ smile ~.