I heard of a woman once, who when she was with child, she turned and this song swelled in her, her child’s own song, and she would hum it as she washed pots. Hum it as she did her hair up, hum that song like a beckoning… her daughter’s very own anthem. Sometimes the mother’s voice grew hoarse. Sometimes she wondered if anyone heard that song but her.

But when the girl was long and willowy, when her heart seemed more wall than warm and her arms seemed crossed more into a shield than open like a shelter, the mother had heard it one afternoon under the direct noon day sun – other voices singing the girl’s song too.
The girl, she had grown deaf and numb and hard to all she was and had been and could be – but her sisters knew her song. Her sisters sang her song – when she had long forgotten the words to herself.
Her sisters sang her beauty when she saw herself ugly.
Her sisters sang her wanted when she saw herself broken.
Her sisters sang her hope when she only felt hurt.
Her sisters sang her beloved – when she couldn’t believe.

If you listen close, you can tell you are cared for by someone by how they carry your name on their lips. How your name is safe on their tongue. And Christ, He names you friend, and God, He calls you redeemed and forgiven, and in Christ, the Three in One, He christens you free of condemnation and accepted and God’s workmanship – and your identity is not in a making a name for yourself but in the name He makes for you out of the shaved off lovebits of His very heart. by Ann Voskamp

Children are a gift from the Lord; they are a reward from him. Psalm 127:3

Prayer

Lord, Give me a helping hand, for I have chosen to follow your commandments.