Nine. The number of years since she took her first breath. Nine. A small number, but this day it might as well be one hundred. I watch as she sleeps by my side and I stroke her hair. She is the image of beauty and grace. I reminisce of the day when I held her in my arms each night; her little hand resting in mine. She needed me. We were one.
It’s hard to imagine that anyone could love her more than I, but there is One. The One to whom she truly belongs. The One who chose to bless me, who had faith in me, greater than I have in myself. The One who entrusted me to raise this precious child.
He has a plan for her life. A plan that is unfolding before my eyes. There are days that I try to do my best for her, and I fail. I am left wondering. Then He whispers to me it’s His plan I need to fulfill. I cry out for forgiveness and surrender this little child, for my best is nothing compared His best. And when I do, she blossoms.
Nine. The number of years of looking into the eyes of a child, my child, and receiving nothing less than a glimpse of the heart of God.
By His grace alone,