This morning felt different.
Maybe it was the snow outside of my window. Snow always muffles everything, even my thoughts.
Maybe it was the tiny shuffle of feet that crawled into bed while the morning was still whispering it's arrival to the dark.
Even more, it could've been the lack of anxiety in my heart, coursing through my veins. It's been awhile since I've felt so "ok."
For a few moments, as we were wrapped up in this white down blanket, we lived inside of an unbreakable shell. We, Madeleine and I, welcomed the morning with tiny songs, little kisses, momentary slumber.
The temptation to worry was right there, sitting on the red table. I could feel it; sense it. Like the slithering shadow it is, its strangling fingers reached towards us.
"No," I prayed. "Not right now. Not here."
"It's coooold, Mama," she said. Do you feel it too, sweetheart?
And I repent for leading her this way. For living my days in fear, instead of faith. For not fixing my eyes on the unmoveable and unshakeable. Am I teaching her to be like a ship tossed on the waves?
"We are anchored to Him," I say. Us two, not much different in this moment.
She begs for milk and a blueberry donut. I rise with her and by grace, leave the slithering darkness behind us.
Today, we have promise. And a future.
Perhaps it's snow muffled.
Or maybe it's the quiet companions of faith and hope, quietly whispering to darkness, "Hey. It's our turn now."
But I felt it this morning. Truth that wraps us up. Promise that anchors us.
Love that really is unbreakable.