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A Full Heart

Confession (and please, no hurt feelings; I'm processing my own emotional struggles, not pointing any fingers): I've often scoffed a little bit at people who use phrases like "my heart is so full" or similar sentimental gushing.  Maybe it's because I've failed to adequately recognized God's blessings when I see them.  Maybe it's because I allow my cynical side to dominate far too often.  Maybe it's because admitting happiness requires a certain level of vulnerability that I have been reticent to display.  (Maybe it's all of the above.)

But I have to say:

Ambling down the quiet sidewalk of my cul-de-sac, my bucket-hatted toddler splashing through puddles to my left, clutching his favorite blue car (just like Daddy's big car) in one hand and demanding to hold not just one finger but my whole hand with the other, and my roly-poly infant babbling quietly under his too-big baseball cap in the carrier on my chest, under blue-sky-white-cloud sunshine on a day that had promised only thunderstorms and hail, the taste of peppercorn-seared strip steak and crème brûlée still on my lips from a long-overdue date night, and the assurances of God's never-forsaking, redeeming love from a rich Bible study on Isaiah 61 fresh in my mind . . . 


My heart is full.  
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