As I sit here gazing out over tree-tops to the giant wave-licked rocks below that are right now bathed in sunlight (we’ve already had rain and hail today–gotta love the NW!), I sense a deep peace spreading over me. Two children are sleeping upstairs (or probably not sleeping, but their Dad is with them so they are at least quiet), and baby Elijah rests gently next to me; the rest of our family is yet to arrive so for the moment the loudest noise I can hear alternates between the wood stove and the sound of the ocean. How far removed this is from what I call my life.

Our dear Friday Night Club friends had a baby boy two days ago, and as we scramble online to catch the first glimpse of him via email with hearts sad to not be close to hold him and touch him, I am grateful for this reminder of how these days are set aside to consider a birth; to marvel at the Creator as created; to worship. The sweet baby I long to hold in Los Angeles reminds me of how my soul should hunger for the touch of that other One; the One who called into being the giant rocks and relentless waves; the One who commands the winds that pounded our windows last night as we tried to sleep with so much moonlit majesty beneath our windows.


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