Gratitude and Gift Wrap

Apparently I am a hoarder of gift wrap. I am convinced that everyone has a bag filled with gift bags and wrapping paper, but as I bravely ventured into Espy's closet last night to conquer the avalanche of items that have cluttered the small, precious storage space, I realized that I have a problem. I found cards from my wedding shower, gift bags from my years teaching preschool, and this beautiful ode to my hot plate written by my co-teacher in celebration of my move into my own apartment eleven years ago (a studio in the Richmond fan district with a refrigerator, sink, and hot plate as the only kitchen appliances). 

Espy slumbered on the tummy time mat beside me as I dove into a series of glittery, ribboned time capsules. 

Gratitude has been the inevitable destination of my recent digressions down memory lane. Words are like these preserved scraps of wrapping paper-- they cannot encapsulate the fullness of my appreciation. I am left creating a patchwork quilt of mismatched words. The ill-assorted wrapping contrasts with the beauty of the enclosed gift. 

Fourteen months ago, in an act of faith, we moved away from a community that we loved. On the drive from Virginia to South Carolina, I received a text message from my "predecessor" at the school where I would be teaching in Beaufort. Without knowing our story, she texted that she was thinking of me and praying that "our family would grow in beautiful ways as a result of our move." She had no idea the weight that her words carried. She did not know our story, nor our reasons for relocating... and yet, somehow, she knew how to pray for us.

Twelve months ago, this same teaching "predecessor," Amy, invited me to join her small group. I drove out to Bluffton on a Wednesday evening and met my first friends in Beaufort. In November, Amy's small group became the first safe place for my admission that I was struggling, and in the dark and terrifying months that followed, two of the women from my small group shared their own stories of mental health with me. They made me feel less alone when I spent most days convinced that I was a worthless burden. They invited me to try new methods for mindfulness, including therapy, acupuncture, and yoga. They provided a safe place to share the shadows that threatened to consume me... and suddenly, the shadows felt less threatening.

Ten months ago, we visited a church on a Saturday evening. In truthfulness, we visited the church because we thought that an evening service would be more convenient for our schedules, but the pastor welcomed us and taught with the humble authority of Christ. Both Glenn and I left knowing that we had found our church home. In the months that followed, Glenn's gifts were elicited to speak to the congregation regarding the historical context for the recent events in Ukraine, and I received the opportunity to worship alongside one of the dearest friends that I have made since our move. Upon sharing a bit of our story, we were embraced by prayer. In her own words, the worship leader and my dear friend, Lauren, indicated that she "broke through the gates of heaven" with her prayers. It must have worked... Since Espy's arrival in our home, our Church of the Palms family has showered us with generous gifts. Each day, Espy and I get excited for the "mail fairy" to arrive because it truly feels magical. While we were still strangers, we were ushered into a church family that has loved us so generously.

I could fill a thousand walk-in closets with the wrapping paper scraps of God's provision over the past year and beyond. Our school communities here (in Beaufort) and back in Goochland have continued to overwhelm us with love, acceptance, prayer, and celebration. I could write pages about the parents of former students who have organized baby showers, the teacher friends who have showed up with meals and diapers, and the teacher leaders who have loved me through the amazing summits and devastating valleys of our journey into parenthood. In all parts of our story, I have been blessed by the glittery bits of friendship and the ribbons of my family. 

Last night, as I attempted to organize and pair down the bag of bags, ribbons, and bows, I found myself on my knees-- the familiar posture for my gratitude these days.

Despite my clumsy attempt at wrapping it, I am living in the reality of the promise that every good and perfect gift comes from our God. Even the most beautiful wrapping paper cannot compare to the gifts He gives us.

I suppose there are far worse things than being a hoarder of wrapping paper.

The Golden Hour

 4AM

She is sleeping so sweetly in the crib beside me with her hands forever folded beside her cheek. 

These are my hours. Before the sun splashes away the last bits of darkness. I sit and watch the sun's tide come in, and for the first time since I can remember, I am not anxious for the hour to pass. For years, I waited for this sweet exhaustion... to not just witness the tidal change, but to feel it... to participate in it. God knew the desire that He had generously bestowed on my heart, and in His perfect timing, He obliged. 

She stirs and stills once more.

Years ago, when my faith was pristine and unblemished by trial, I went bird banding with a friend from the flower shop where I worked. For those unfamiliar with the technique, bird banding involves venturing into the woods before sunrise to set up mist nets within the tree canopy. Over the course of the dawn's incoming tide, the bird banders revisit each net to identify, tag, and release the captured birds. It is one of the oldest techniques for researching individual birds and their migratory patterns. 

Espy whimpers, and I carefully reach into the crib and wrap the blanket over her liberated toes. Sleep returns. She is stilled once more.

As a neophyte without license, my participation was limited, but I quietly trailed my older and more experienced bird banding colleague. Silence was carefully kept so as not to disrupt the delicate creatures... It seems like words are a much more valuable currency during this golden hour. 

As sunlight confined darkness to its shadows, we approached a mist net with a very small stain of color. A ruby-throated hummingbird was caught in the tender grip of the webbing. Without a specialized license, it is illegal to band hummingbirds. They are especially delicate. I watched as my friend gingerly removed the lattice from her fragile feathers. Seemingly aware of her helplessness, the little bird did not stir or startle. Once removed from the net, my coworker placed the stunned creature in the palm of my hand. For a moment that felt like eternity, the hummingbird and I took each other in. As she recognized her liberation, she levitated on buzzing wings. She lingered for a moment in quiet gratitude before darting out of sight. 

The present uncertainties will overwhelm me if I let them, and the shadows whisper that this tide won't last, but it is here now, and I am bathed in its light.

Espy coos. Wings stir. I reach into the crib and gently lift her to my chest. Her gentle breath brushes my collarbone like feathers. Good morning, my precious little hummingbird.