warrior child // prayers for Caden

Crystal holding Caden this afternoon
this Warrior grows stronger daily

my recent posts on sistership echo strong in my heart tonight. 

there is a girl who is dear to my soul, and whose strength inspires me to rise above my circumstances. to trust Him more, to rely on Him fully.

my sweet Crystal Leigh.

and her baby -- her tiny Warrior child -- is hurting.

Caden Mathias: spirit of battle, gift of God. 

his heart was laid bare on Thursday under the skillful hands of surgeons, set on making this small Warrior well again.

and now his mother holds his tiny hand as he lays in a bed so big that his tiny form breaks my heart. she has only been able to hold him in her arms and rock away his tears twice since his surgery.

but he opens his huge blue eyes and looks into his mama's face and smiles and coos as best he can. his little body is stronger today, and will be tomorrow.

but oh, dear ones, he needs prayers.

prayers for healing. for strength. for miracles.

for the comfort for his mother, so full of Hope and faith in Caden's Father.

in the hospital -- far less tubes than yesterday
this strong mother and his Father King to watch over him.
this prince is in the greatest of hands

my heart breaks for this child, this little man i have never held and his mother whom i have never embraced.

but my heart is with Crystal and Caden tonight.

this mother is so strong, it leaves me in awe. raising this little one as a single mother -- relying on his Father for peace and sustenance in ways that humble this heart of mine.

touch the hem of His robe for this child.

please storm the gates of Heaven for this boy. he is so loved and he is so precious to so many.

pray for this Warrior child.

Caden Mathias. Warrior of God. 

days // hours // minutes

{via pinterest}

we all have our comforts. 

those things that draw us in and bring us a sense of warmth during these final months of the year. the spirit of celebration and nostalgia begins to burn within our hearts, as if kindled by the colder air and swirling leaves in tones of red and gold. 

comforts and warmth are part of the season. these final two months that grace the year are full of so many things unique to them, and only them.

 perhaps it is why we look at our calenders and count the days like children, eager for whispering snow and silver bells. 

how many more minutes 'till Christmas?

i've always been the nostalgic one. the one that looks with fond memories over each tradition, each carefully packed away decoration. the smell of pine makes me dream of late winter nights spent with my sister, pouring over our brightly coloured pictures and decorating the tree on November 1st. 

it's only 365 days between each visit, you know. 

{via pinterest}

but why does it feel so long between?

and why do i want it to come so fast this year? 

i'm catching myself drinking peppermint hot chocolate and longing to slip The Holiday or White Christmas into the DVD player. breaking my own firm rules: nothing Christmas until at least November. 

but we still have three full days until the eleventh month. i'm counting the days till Christmas on my fingers and toes. this sentimentality is killing me. 

perhaps Christmas is my comfort. the carols, the tinkling bells. the smells of pine and snow, the aroma that winter alone carries in its pocket. 

perhaps it is celebrating the start of my salvation. the stepping from gold to straw. from cries of Holy to cries for food and comfort from the throat of the King. 

God to Man combined. 

and so i will snuggle up with my peppermint hot chocolate, breaking my own little rule.

and this little girl will sit, counting... 

57 days. 1,364 hours. 81,864 minutes.

skyeyes

Remember being a little child

lying on your back with your eyes wide shut

staring ceaselessly at the floating clouds above.

Giraffe. 

Ice cream cone.

Hero dragons with mouths of flame. 

These are the things we saw

more than just puffs of gathered precipitation floating in the

atmosphere.

Angels bowling

Cameras flashing.

Roads to Oz.

These are the things we heard

more than just rolling thunder

or whirling tornado clouds.

Child ears. Child eyes.

Nearly twenty-one and never forgotten.

I want to keep my

innocent eyes

to look up at the clouds.

(Note from Rachel: After penning yesterday's post of imperfect prose, I became so inspired to turn my hand at the poetry wheel again. It had been so long, and I felt so deeply that this was something God was telling me I was supposed to undertake once again. And so here it is...uncensored and unedited. 

Spoken word. Living truth.)