Emily Hope Briggs was born eighteen years ago today. Nine days to the day after my mother died. During the intervening week my sister and her family moved to town allowing us to walk together through those strange days.
Emily's birthday brings memory of my mother. On mine I remember my dad, who died the day I turned forty. Strangeness no amount of writing will ever unravel. Which is not to call it terrible. Sick as she was, my mother was thrilled over my third pregnancy. There's something tidy and satisfying about having my dad for precisely forty years. Like dying on one's own birthday.
Best of all, alongside me has been this one called Emy, marking the time as she grows in stature, in wisdom, in favor of God and us regular mortals too. A singing, dancing, drawing, pranking proof of the goodness of God who promises to turn our sorrow into joy.
Six months from now she'll be packing for college and the sadness of her leaving will be overwhelmed by the thrill of unleashing her upon the world. For the comfort and the challenge she will be wherever her wandering heart takes her.
But not yet. She's still mine a little longer and I'm going to revel in these tattoo-less days, however few they may be, grateful beyond measure for the privilege it has been to stand near her these eighteen years. ~ peace & prayers, pastor annette