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Several years ago now a show called, The Chosen premiered. Admittedly, I didn’t dive in immediately because I tend to be a bit uncertain when it comes to new shows showcasing the story of Jesus. After a good friend mentioned it to me, telling me it reminded him at least a wee bit of the Lenten book I’d written, I decided to tune in and try it out. From the first episode, I was hooked; not only was the writing engaging but the acting and directing were well done as well. But it was the story that drew me in.
While Jesus is clearly a central figure—how can He not be—the focus is actually on His disciples, the chosen ones He called to follow Him. Writer and director Dallas Jenkins has done a wonderful job taking familiar stories and familiar people from the pages of Scripture and bringing them to life. What I love the most is the human beings Jenkins has shown the disciples to be. There is something truly awesome about these flawed, imperfect people being chosen by Jesus.
I feel that way often about our sweet little family. While our family does not embody the entire idea of Jesus choosing each of His disciples, it does reflect that essence of choosing to love flawed, imperfect people with a deep and no-matter-what kind of love.
Every morning when I awake, the day greets me with its new mercies, its new opportunities, its new possibilities. And every morning when I awake, I greet the day with an anticipation for what lies ahead. For what comes next.
In our flawed, imperfect but sweet little family, we come together throughout the day, ebbing and flowing like the tides, first together, then time alone, then together, then shifting formations of sisters or parent and teenager or all four of us together but doing our own things.
This sweet little family of mine is my heartbeat and my every breath.
These two remarkable young women breathe life into my days, even my hard days, my challenging days, the days when my mind feels too full and cluttered to think straight. They have reached places in their own growth and development where they can read me, read my emotional being a bit more and they look for ways to support me. In many ways, they are becoming more like me in their desire and willingness to hold space for me, to encourage me.
I love that my youngest asks me if a hug might help me—touch or no touch, she will ask, knowing that I am not always one who wants physical touch or hugs the way she does. Almost always I will take her hug gratefully, but when I decline, I love that instead she gives me an air hug. I love that she respects my needs and has found a way to express her love in such a wonderful way.
I love that my oldest asks if there is anything she can do to lighten my load. While much of the time I decline her offer as well, I love that she asks every time. I also love that, like her sister, she respects my desire to be left to myself because for me, the slow, steady busyness of my hands tends to ground me.
I love that they are mine. I love that they sit at the table and talk and laugh and are connected in strong ways. Their joy, their delight, their laughter washes over me like the tides of our family that create comfort for me. They are the ebb and flow of my days, and I am grateful to know that God chose me for them and them for me. I love that in this wide world full of so many people, these two amazing young women are my daughters.
Every morning when I wake up, I look forward to the coming day. I love that first sip of the coffee my husband makes for me. I love the quiet time he and I share. I love the time I get to spend quietly with God. And I love the anticipation of greeting my girls each day. I love knowing that I get to love them every single day and that is something I would choose again and again and again.