My daughter, I confess, this photo wasn't taken on the eighty-first day of this year. From dawn until far into the night it was clear you weren't in a picture-taking mood. Or a remotely happy state, for that matter. You are cutting two teeth at present, and having a miserable time doing it.
In the evening you threw a frightful fit. Never before have you been so mad, so angry at me for your discomfort. You fought me in every way you knew how, and I fought the awful feelings of hurt and wrath that boiled in my soul. You cried and screamed and I went to you, again and again, and finally you tired into sleep. Your daddy and I stayed up for some time afterward talking, of a heavenly father whose love is endless, of the way we often fight, childishly, the very providence that is for our good. My daughter, in mothering you I know love, and hope, and the God who holds them perfectly in his hands, more and more each day.
In the morning I pressed you close, still sleepy, on the couch. I nuzzled your soft cheeks against mine and smelled the baby scent of your hair, your skin. Weeping may endure for the night, yes, but Joy comes in the morning.
- March 22, 2015