Faith, Farms and Pots of Gold

She says it as I’m spooning up soup and slicing bread hot from the oven how when she’s taking a shower or sitting tidy in church, when there’s a moment of quiet at school and she doesn’t know what to pray she prays for me. That someday I’ll be whole and well and we can all move onto that farm and get the chickens and dogs and ponies she’s always wanted and they won’t make me sick and we can homeschool so she can teach the animals. She’s grinning as she’s dreaming clutching that doll of hers that she can make sound like a full grown baby at a seconds notice, her front teeth still too large, for her head’s still growing and there’s more sunshine in her face when she smiles then on a sunny day. There’s nothing that can send a lump to the throat and make this Momma’s heart swell than hearing the faith of a child and I blush peeking into this intimate window of a soul enlarging for even now at the tender year of eight she’s learning what it means to wait expectantly…to wait cheerfully. So I let down my guard of “what ifs” and “not possibles” that accumulate over the course of a few decades snarled with bumps and bruises, and we slurp bowls warm and butter bread thick and paint the picture of country life without allergies and asthma and cryptogenic organizing pneumonia and I can almost taste it, this promise of a new life, a fresh start, all from the mouth of a babe.

And there on the table in the middle of all this babble are these little pots of gold at the end of the rainbow splashing sunshine all wild with life.

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