Heroine unaware

I don’t know if she realized how beautiful she was. She sat on the stage, hands trembling slightly, eyes down cast. She took a deep breath, looked up and scanned our faces. I wondered what she might be searching for—judgment? Compassion? Someone… anyone… who might get it?

“I was 15-years-old when I got pregnant,” she began. She shared how she’d come from a Christian home, how she never expected that this would happen to her.

She went on to share how difficult it was to tell her parents.

This young woman knew she couldn’t care for her baby, so she began taking steps toward adoption. She sought out a family, she invited them into her pregnancy and then on the day her daughter was born, she set her into the arms of loving, adoptive parents.

She told her story with tears in her eyes. It was no easy choice to give up someone she loved so much. Even now, four years later, tears slipped down her cheeks as she thought of that painful moment of placing her daughter into the arms of another mom.

This lovely young woman still gets to see her daughter through the open adoption. Her smile broadened as she talked of how well her girl is doing, what a joy it is to see her thriving… and how much she loves her still.

There wasn’t a dry eye in the whole place.

I found this young woman achingly beautiful. I wanted to scoop her up in my arms and hold her tight and thank her for all that she did. Such an incredible sacrifice, such profound love to give life to a young couple that would experience it no other way.

Sometimes heroines come in small packages, small packages with humongous hearts.

I stand in tearful awe.

Beautiful.

Mile Marker 42

I am so not dignified. Really. It’s mildly embarrassing how giddy I get when I’m about to see my man. When I arrived home Sunday night after a busy run of travel, I had a smile on my face before I even exited the plane.

My grin broadened as I walked through the terminal and climbed on board the train. Random people smiled back.

My joy grew by increments of warm fuzzies and mild goofiness as the train came to a stop.

I nearly bounded up the escalator before remembering, Come now, Elsa, professional women don’t bound.

Finally. I scanned the crowd. Caught glimpse of that smile. Threw decorum to the wind and bounded into my man’s strong arms and melted against his chest.

Oh, how I love coming home.

That was just the beginning. We gathered the luggage, jumped in the car and headed south. With each mile marker, my sense of expectation grew.

Mile marker 163… getting close.

Mile marker 200. The magic number.

Home!

I walked in the door to puppies jumping, and my girl squealing “Mommy!”

Yes, she’s 19. Yes, she still squeals “Mommy!”

Oh, how I love coming home.

As I lay in bed that night, content and warm, the thought came to mind: I have another home too.

And when I get there, my Savior will meet me at the gate. Broad smile, twinkling eyes, ready embrace. Without decorum, I will bound into his arms and melt into his love.

I’ll turn to see my dad, my nephew, my brother and my grandparents.

I’m at mile marker 42.  Not sure where the exit is, but the sense of expectation is growing.  Some day…. One day…. we’ll all be home. And if I’m goofy giddy at the prospect of my earthly home, I can’t imagine how explosive the joy will be when I bound into the arms of my Savior.

 

Oh, how I will love coming home.