How can it be? I know, I know . . . I start all of these letters with pretty much those same words, don’t I?

I still hold-firm to the same truths I lament each year—yes, it’s still going too fast. Yes, you’re growing up. Yes, it still feels like it was just the other day that I birthed you on that cold, blustery winter day.  Yes, I still want to stop time, freeze-frame you, and deeply breathe-in that little girl and her melodious voice that echoes through our home.

The very voice that will, without-warning, sneak away into the night until Daddy and I notice that out-of-the-blue, you won’t speak in the same sing-song lilt and utter those nonsensical jokes anymore.

You’ll sound older. Your conversations will move-on to more serious manners. We’ll still laugh but it won’t be over punchlines that don’t make sense to anyone but your brothers and you.

While I’ve so much still to learn, dear daughter, I do know enough to recognize that I will yearn for the very day we stand upon right now.

As we are shopping for your prom dress. Getting you ready for your first year of college. Helping you set-up your first apartment. Meeting the man we’ve been praying for since you were born. Looking for a wedding dress. Welcoming your own children into the world.

There’s just this thing about a mama’s heart.

We can’t get your little face, your baby voice, your springy curls, your innocent giggles out of our minds. They’re stuck there like a time-capsule, ready to be opened for those milestones above or a day when we just miss you so.

Maybe this is a bit depressing and I’m sorry. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic because I’m loving each new stage we begin to walk, truth be told.

I’ve always enjoyed you. Except maybe a few moments when you suffered from colic and a couple of times during your toddler years. Even then, I would have chosen to walk through those hard mama moments over not having you at all.  .

You’ve been worth every sigh or exhausted utterance or verbal misstep I’ve ever taken at your expense.  Your grace for your mother’s own human flesh still blows me away.

Those less-than-stellar parenting moments have refined me and forced me to grow up a bit, right alongside you.

And we’re still at it—growing up together. You and I.

You’ve taught me about animals. Gentleness. Selfishness. Giving. Loving my neighbor as myself. Native Americans. American Girl Dolls. Stories in the Bible. Unconditional love. Tender hearts. There’s so much more . . .

But most of all, you’ve taught me, precious angel, a selflessness so utterly primal that I would literally die for you at any moment. A deep-rooted love that possesses a power I couldn’t ever have imagined before I became your mother.

A love that seeps into every ounce of my being and re-defines my purpose and makes all the other stuff that I thought was once my purpose pale in comparison.

To be your mother. That’s it. Plain and simple.

And while I might not do it perfectly, I’ll do it the best I can, with Him as my guide.

Because we’re growing up together, you and I. We’ll need a lot of grace.

But we rejoice in the love.

Happy 8th Birthday, my beautiful Sarah. I thank God every day for blessing me with a daughter. When I dreamed of having a little girl when I was a little girl myself, you far exceed that girl in my dreams.

You are beyond fearfully and wonderfully made. Knitted together by a Creator that could only be Him.

I love you,











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