She peeked her head into the door, leaning in far enough for her hair to brush my chest, and wiped her nose on her sleeve.
“You got a real pretty tree in there and hey, Isaac won’t share his pogo stick. Can’t you come out here and whoop his tail?” she said.
I stood there in the doorway, my eyes focusing in on her runny nose. It was like a faucet.
“I like them stockings, too.”
Before I could thank her, grab a tissue, or decide whether or not to whoop Isaac’s tail, she slid her little hiney down off the porch and ran back into the yard.
I’d love to tell you that I followed Hailey to the yard and stuffed her pockets with enough tissues to last a week, but I didn’t. And for those of you wondering, I didn’t whoop Isaac, either.
I closed the door and waited for her to come and knock again. I kinda hoped she would knock, one more time, and maybe tattle on Ainsley or one of the other kids.
For the past 30 hours, my mind has replayed our exchange in the doorway. More specifically, the part about the tree and the stockings being real pretty.
Tonight, I feel immense guilt for our more and her less.
Our tree and lights and stockings and heat and closets of blankets and even the bowls of potato soup that the kids push aside, seem audacious.
I love to open all the blinds in our home from sun-up to sun-down, year ’round. At night, I like to drive up to our house, on our dark street, and see our house ablaze with light. I love being able to watch the kids moving about the rooms and pillow fighting, through the open blinds.
I love the life that happens behind those brick walls.
I love being a light in the dark.
But how in the world does our light, our life, our more, become His Light, His Life, His More, in our corner of the world?
* Ornament made by Elli last year…shamelessly bragging over here. I’m a proud mama…