The Baby Books We Make With Our Prayers {with printable prayers for our children}

We named her Hope and He tethered us with a name we couldn’t change.

She was birthed in Africa’s dirt and lived more life and death in her five years than some see in their thirty-five. She saw blood before it stained and talked of bodies, when breath had left them and the ground absorbed them, as casually as if it were a Sunday ceremony. The girl we’d named Hope was shackled by a story that spoke the opposite.

And He picked me, this one who’d made a habit out of fear, to mother her.

Her days wore the scars you’d expect from her history and I was called to restore them. Hugging and holding, looking directly into the eyes of the one you call Mommy, were unfamiliar to her street-wise skin. She knew how to snatch and to catch and hoard — but to receive?

She wailed when I found her, pen in hand and brand-new birthday baby doll, defaced. Her life’s inertia had never before been given pause and these new days in our home were allowing her to slow down to a new pace, where the  [continue reading over here, on Mothers of Daughters –>]

Pinterest
View All Posts

Recent Blog Posts

The Gift of Mistreatment

I hadn’t even finished college when I had the conversation that would be the first in a string of ones like it stretching through my adulthood. I didn’t realize it then: this conversation was a rite of passage. We sat across from one another over a scheduled breakfast that I’d walked into with a lump in my throat. I was on…
Continue

When You Stop Being Invulnerable

A friend (who’d worked at length with children) watched the two of them play innocently in the one small section of the waiting room where we’d told them they could unpack their tote of just a few toys. We’d described to him their first few months at home with with us and he witnessed what we’d said and more. They played…
Continue

What Wonder Can Do for the Human Heart

Summer is about wonder. I grew up knowing summer to be the pungent smell of saltwater air that envelops the east coast oceanfront towns. We spent only one week per year at the beach, but my memory of those weeks overshadows swim lessons and day camps and bike rides to the neighborhood pool. Grains of sand embedded themselves in the seat of my bathing…
Continue

Fatherless on Father’s Day {a note to my dad}

Dear Dad, I once heard a set of parents say that they wanted their ceiling to be their children’s floor. If you’d heard that, too, you would have said it. You lived it. Though your body was broken for about as many years of my life as not, I think I’ll always remember you as you were when you were…
Continue

How to Love a Man

Dear husband — it’s not just them whom you’ve trapped in wonder. They’ll make you cards and sing songs to which they’ve forgotten half the words and climb all over you first thing Sunday morning to wish you Happy Father’s Day, but I’m the one who sees what seven and nine and eleven year-old eyes are too young to catch. Father’s Day is my…
Continue