I watched you.
Sometimes with my heart in my throat, sometimes with tears in my eyes.
I wanted you to connect, to feel welcome, to make a friend. I wanted people to be nice to you and you to be nice to them. I watched. I watched you as you giggled nervously and then as your smile broadened the safer you felt. I watched as you high fived one of the girls, laughed out loud, inhaled a piece of pizza.
And I nearly started balling.
Right there at a bowling alley with hundreds of 5th and 6th graders.
I didn’t. And you can thank me later for the way I covered the tears in my eyes with a hearty sneeze and shrug.
I delighted in you. In the moment. In the fact that you are our daughter and I get to be here, right now, with you.
I had the same feeling today when you performed in your first baton march. They called your name and pronounced our last name wrong, like they usually do. Our last name. OUR last name.
And you smiled brave and strong, lifted your knees high, gracefully navigating your 8 step routine.
Tears came to my eyes again.
I wanted you to succeed, feel joy, be proud of yourself. I wanted it for you and with you.
And in these things, in all these things, you didn’t know. You were completely unaware of the intensity of my emotion.
Then my breath caught – if this is how I feel in all my incredibly frail brokenness – how much more does our God feel that way about me, about us? When we risk, when we connect, when we make a friend, be a friend. When we stretch ourselves, test ourselves, live big and brilliant.
I think we are completely unaware of how much he is in every moment – how deeply he feels, how much it matters to him, how he is for us and with us, all the time.
Oh my word. Sniff. Sniff.