We’re sitting together in the kitchen, softly lit on a Sunday morning, everyone else asleep. The world outside is a damp gray, which makes being in this space even better. I sit at the table with a notebook and a couple of devotionals and a mug of coffee, savoring the heaven that is the first hot sip. She sits propped in a spare car seat, belly full, contentedly studying her blanket and a toy dragon and, well, herself.
Her legs stretch, her feet wiggle, her hands curl and drift about her toy, her face, the air. Her face crinkles into smiles — are they of recognition? Are they of sheer surprised delight in this world she’s gradually starting to trust? Whatever their cause, they’re the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time.
We’re both in pajamas. Yesterday she woke up early. I fed her, put her back down, and went for a run in the darkness. Today not so much, but that’s the way it goes with a three-month-old. Shoot, that’s the way it goes with everything. Plan, adjust, keep rolling. I’ll go for a run a little later, maybe in this fog that’s descending. Fog in Albuquerque always feels strange and magical. It’s nature’s sleep sack. Shhhh, be still.
But really, we’re both just enjoying this moment. She’s absorbed in her affairs; I’m absorbed in her. I was going to take advantage of the quiet to go get my Bible and crack it open — it’s been a while — but instead I watch her, and listen to her, and look at her, and think maybe that’s a way to commune with God, too. What will her life be like? What will this day be like?
She begins to drowse off. The coffee pot murmurs to itself. The house’s heater cycles on. Big sister is singing in her crib. Time to get up.