Many thanksgivings have left my lips but none so full of truth than the day that I whispered it over you softly, so as not to overburden your yet unformed ears with the sound.
I am thankful for many things, not the least of which are tiny lungs that fill with air and expend all the energy she can muster, bursting forth with what we in the south call “a holler.” She screams now, in the background of my phone conversations is a constant screeching noise, distracting, and I am thankful for the irritation because remember when a machine breathed for her? Remember when they said the damage meant that sound might not come? Remember when her cries were miniature and trapped by the plastic of the box she lived in?
Today I am honored to be writing over at Incourage, where my gratitude extends for a sacred space in which to share my story. This is the story of the first Thanksgiving that I spent with my daughter, just a few weeks old, when we were both fighting to breathe. I hope that you will read it, and that reading it today will bless you in the way that living it has blessed me. Happy Thanksgiving.
