we're naming her Marian.
grace's star. graceful star.
we're naming her Abigail.
joy of the Father. father's joy.
:: :: ::
i'm painting her legacy into her name. the legacy of a woman, sister to my father's father, who prayed for me when i was as she is now. a woman who now sings with Jesus and dips her toes in the pools of stars and inhales pure grace from the lips of the Saviour.
the legacy of a blonde haired sister who shared my room from the moment we brought her home, who became my worst enemy and my best friend, who became more connected to my heart through drying ink on a legal document than blood could have ever provided.
she is named after two great women. one older and passed from earth to greater Life, and one younger and still inhaling every second of oxygen that she can while her feet are still just barely pressed to grass. they are both full of Holy Light, though one is in the presence and one is still striving forward.
some shake their heads and say
it's just a name.
she'll be who she is all on her own.
and she will be herself and no one else, because i plan on pressing the paintbrush into her fingers from the moment she inhales earth's air into her tiny lungs for the first time.
from the time she is born, i will whisper into her ear of her self-worth and her beauty, and i will show her little feet how to walk His path instead of theirs.
but i'm still painting that legacy into her name. graceful star, her Father's joy. woman of God, girl of grace. warrioress and soul poet, whether she bathes in ink and old parchment or revels in grass stains and basketball courts.
and she already is a graceful star. i feel her dancing beneath my skin in a rhythm that only she hears and understands with my heartbeat as her cadence, as her tribal drum to start.
and oh, she already is her father's joy. here on earth as he presses lips to my stomach and tells her that he loves her already, as his eyes fill with so much pride that i know he would rip lions to pieces and place them at her feet, that he would bear the moon on his back for this tiny girl-child. all before she is even his to hold.
and that is just her earthly father's pride, and the joy of the man whose blood she has. she will still bear a name that He knew -- her heavenly Abba -- before it was pieced together in my soul.
a name He knew, a name He treasures. a name that makes Him laugh and whisper,
yes, I know her.
she's Mine, and I know what's Mine.
|linking with emily and the rest of the imperfect prose team|