I don't use the word blessing often. Not because I don't value it. But because I value it so much. I'm not one to casually express "What a blessing!" or "You are blessed!" Not because I don't believe that the Lord continually blesses us, but because for me, there is a rare sacredness to all forms of the word bless. This is not to say that those who use forms of it often, value it any less ... In my walk of faith, though, it is heavy. Solemn. To be blessed. To receive blessings. These are the gifts which overwhelm. Which render me wordless.
Psalm 127:3-5 (NIV) tells us: Children are a heritage from the Lord, offspring a reward from him. Like arrows in the hands of a warrior are children born in one's youth. Blessed is the man whose quiver is full of them.
I am blessed to be called "Mama" by Maile. This sweet, beautiful, energetic girl. I cannot even begin to share with you how many times a day that she touches my heart. How she overwhelms me. How do you explain motherhood? Except to say that it changes life in a way that nothing else can.
Maile has brought the most joy into our home that Mr. M and I have ever experienced. A love that grows more and more crushing with each passing day. We absolutely adore, with all of our hearts, being her parents. We feel privileged to be her parents.
I never thought that anyone could give me butterflies the way Mr. M still does. But those nights that we sneak into bed with Maile, on either side of her. We smell our baby girl's sweet hair. Silently squeeze each other's hands, under the pillow, under Maile's head, three times: "I. love. you." We smile. Close our eyes. And there they are ... butterflies. An entirely different sort.
Yet butterflies, still.