Children have an extremely beautiful power in their bones. It begins in their hearts, reaches forward through their bloodstream, and somehow travels to their crescent-moon smiles and glitzing eyes.
It is their ability to bring joy to the darkest places, to create hope and fullness in the most trivial moments.
They find life in cookies and milk, in pretend tea parties and cheese sticks, in stacking blocks and bouncing balloons.
They watch birds and marvel at the misplaced leaf that’s fallen from the oak tree.
And the true magic, I think, is how my boys find my beauty when all I feel that I’m giving them is my angriest heart, my most impatient command, my constant stress over their boy messes.
And yet, they rejoice, creating joy out of worry, curious life out of void boredom.
And they pull it out of me, my heartiest laugh, my surrender to that same magic, that let’s-believe-in-Santa-and-dream-dreams kind of surrender.
It is their gift to us, their presence in all of our hum-drum and bah humbug.
They bring us miracle daily– may we be patient enough to stoop down and see it.