Wealthy One

I married a man with mirth in his eyes, an appetite to learn, and the energy to accomplish great things. He brightens my shadowy moods and recites truths over our children, causing them to grow like dandelions. 

Lucy Jill was the first to enter my arms, and her sensitive nature connected with my own like superglue. The merciful heart planted inside of her bleeds easily. She sees the hurting quickly, quietly, and extends to them whatever is at her disposal. I smile when I catch her bent over her hundredth journal, the contents revealing a soul swimming in deep waters. 

Moses Carver is my sunny boy with the laugh. You can tell who he’s with by the giggles coming out. An artist of color, his drawings consistently combine shades that seem made for each other and his dance moves are just as amusing. He is gentle, unassuming, and the first one to make the baby quit fussing. When he’s out of the house, we all start to wilt. His brilliant boyness is most welcome in our home of little women. 

Lisette Flannery arrived into the world in a matter of minutes, landing herself inside of a toilet. She hasn’t lost her zest for life. She is plucky, bright, and our favorite dinnertime comedian. Her humor is well-paired with her steady stream of insightful questions, asked with marble eyes, the same royal blue majestically painted on the peacock. 

Olive Peace wears her heart outside her chest, so that we have no doubt what she loves and well, doesn’t love. Her wispy hair and tiny face make us think she is from some fairy world. The way she skips around the house, half-flying, only confirms it. She is shy to let new people in, but when she does, her loyalty and love gush out like the waters of Minnehaha.  

Swede Louise follows a long line of siblings, an environment she seems to thrive in. We call her our bulldog, due to her round cheeks and durability. She falls down and gets back up without tears, and charms all who make her acquaintance. She’s petted by her siblings with more affection than most could wish for in a lifetime. 

These are the olive shoots around my table, the arrows flying up and out, way beyond me. At this stage of the parenting game, all their arrow-selves spin circles around my head and I’m trying to survive the whirring noise in my eardrums. These adorable people often feel less like gifts and more like robbers of my time and fading dreams. Other moments, like when I lay close to them in bed when they are sick and sleeping, I study their face and feel their breath, and I start to see them. Their hearts beating with fears and passions, personalities blooming, lives just beginning in bodies that mirror their Creator, parents, and fallen flesh. My name means “wealthy one.” It’s never held any sort of sentimental value to me and most often I use it to joke about how loaded I am. But as I watch my children, in all their glory and imperfection, my name suddenly lays on my head like a wreath of ivy and I know it fits. I am the wealthy one.