Rosé

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. Oh, how words scatter like petals on the breeze when I seek to capture what she is to me. You know you’ve discovered true beauty when your breath is stolen and your mind is quieted even as your heart dances. My Rosé does this to me. An eternal soul crafted by God, more precious than any earthly gem, and mine to love. It’s no wonder I could not cease crying when I first held her in my arms.

As soft as her skin is against my cheek, so do I feel my heart has softened, allowing the roots of love to sink deeper than ever before. My loved ones are more lovable for the wonder of life that Rosé has awakened in me; my husband is a greater man in my eyes than ever before, my mother a greater woman. Truly, a mother’s heart is a meadow in springtime, crocus bursting through the snow, as the world is renewed through her child. I do not think I have felt this joyful, this peaceful, since my wedding day, when the world was renewed through the gift of my husband. How much closer we are today in our shared purpose to protect this little rose-hued flame from being snuffed out in the growing darkness. We belong to each other, we three. We are brighter, more beautiful, together. Such is the gift of the family.

O God, in the absence of adequate praise of Rosé, I praise You for Your goodness, that You would bless us with this beauty beyond words. 

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