I am writing two stories. One is on paper, and the other is on the heart of my sweet Rosé.Continue reading
I am settled in a rope hammock, my bare feet gliding over the labyrinth of shadows on the ground. Rosé is perched on my lap, her skin so very pure in the sunlight, her pale hair shimmering like the finest threads of spun gold. She is blinking up at the poplars arching over us, mesmerized by the leaves fluttering like untold emerald butterflies. We’ve spent much time here together, swinging, swinging.
Some might say motherhood is monotony, but I say it is music.Continue reading
The blog I was planning to write would have been, in comparison, a boring one—something about how peaceful and beautiful the Mallett family farm is, how happy I am to be home. I would have told you about the divine smell in the air and the chorus of birds in the lofty treetops—treetops that are no longer alive and well.Continue reading
As flies begin to buzz again at the windows, Nicholas and I prepare to leave this island, this humble island that has carried us through many seasons. Astonishing to think that when I first arrived here three years ago, I was a single woman. Today, I am married to an islander and mother to an islander. God did not waste time with me.Continue reading
You are crying, little one, and I cannot fix you. But I can hold you and comfort you as best I can.
I confess, the day it finally sank in that Rosé is suffering colic, I was deeply saddened. I didn’t want to admit it was true. Before Rosé, I defined such babies by their colic. But here now is a little girl whose personality I can already glimpse, who is oh-so-sweet, delightfully bright, and curious when she is not writhing in discomfort—who is so much more than colic. Continue reading
Sometimes when I wake in the dawning morning and hear the lonely call of a bird through the window, my heart is carried away to another corner of the world. In this humble place, I cannot hear the hum of a fridge or the clinking of a radiator; I hear only the black bird hidden among an oak’s branches, my husband’s breathing, my baby’s occasional grunt. Continue reading
As I held Rosé in my arms, studying her sleeping face, I was seized with reverence for her. No matter how crystalline her purity may be, I am incapable of penetrating to her very core. Even now, when she is most dependent on me, she is her own person, perfectly complete with or without me. And whether or not she is aware, I am not enough for her. Like me, like her earthly father, she too must make her own journey to her heavenly Father. She is my daughter, but also my sister, born into this world only to return to the place from which we came.Continue reading
As Saint Patrick’s Day was unfolding with milky morning light, I pushed a little girl into the world. My baby now has a name—Rosé Zélie Pierlot—and a face, the sweet face of a rosebud. Continue reading
Baby, sweet someone, I believe you will reveal God to me as I’ve never known Him before. Yes, I think that may be why He has led me into the desert during these months prior to your coming, allowing me to suffer the dryness as my mind searches for answers and my heart aches for deeper union with Him. Continue reading
Why do I find myself believing pain is more real than peace?
Why do I often feel that my strengths are artificial—illusion, deception—and my weaknesses authentic? On a good day, I am certain Christ is buoying me above the waves; on a bad day, I am certain He is beyond arm’s reach. Desolation penetrates me more deeply than does consolation. Objective truths—I am loved, my true self is truly good—suddenly seem to be subjective hogwash, the intoxicating smoke of a shaman’s pipe hovering over reality. Continue reading