For years I feared having a daughter. I feared the inevitable mother/daughter conflict, I feared her turning 13 and into some sort of unrecognizable monster, I feared breaking her heart.
But when I found out I was pregnant with my daughter some years ago, I cried tears of joy, tears that knew that God had not withheld one good thing from me. He was blessing me beyond anything I could have hoped for and he would give me what I needed to raise this little girl. And that is why I named her Hope - to remind me that my hope is in Him, not in me, not in my ability to be the mom that I want to be to her, but in the fact that His love never fails - not me and not her.
When she was a collicky baby I feared that she already hated me, wasn't waiting until the preteen years, I was failing her already. But once a few nights of good sleep sunk in and she started smiling that sparkling smile of hers at me, I knew we'd be okay.
And this daughter of mine, that I feared having for so long, has become my delight. I look at her and well up with love and joy and wonder. She is a beautiful little girl, but I am stunned at how little that beauty really matters to me. I love when she is dirty and grimy, hair in her face, and wearing her brother's hand-me-downs (like in the picture above). I love her when she is petulant and snotty. I love her when she giggles at her own jokes and puts on a pretty dress with tights, sparkly shoes and a head band because she loves being a girly girl.
And I love the way she loves. She wants to give her brothers hugs and kisses every day, but they don't always want to be kissed on by their little sister. She worries that Joshua doesn't love her because he won't let her kiss him. I love that she crawls into bed with her daddy several times a week because she "missed him." I love that when she talks about loving me she has to mention her love for daddy and that he loves me, too. To her, our love is interconnected and inseparable.
I love her soft sweet skin, her tiny little dimple, the shape of her eyes and the sound of her voice. I love that she's just as tough as she is sweet and that she wants to be like me, though at times that worries me, too.
I am amazed at how unselfishly I am able to love her. I love her not for what she gives to me or does, for how she performs or what she says. I love Hope because she is my daughter, my delight. She is beautiful, but I don't care if there are a million little girls more beautiful than her. She is smart, but I couldn't care less if others are more brilliant. She is mine, and if you lined up all of the little girls in the world and told me I could pick whichever one I want, I would run straight to her, pick her up and hold her tight and never let her go.
Someone reminded me this week that this is how God feels about me, His daughter. It just doesn't seem possible, does it?
