Dear baby boy.

You are seven months old now, almost eight. Full of life and words (or almost words) and joy. Oh my goodness, the joy. I am so eager to uncover the light behind that joy, the little pieces that make you so wonderfully you.

Lately, you've started to pick up books. Pat the Bunny is a favorite, for obvious reasons, and you turn it over and over in your hands on your bedroom floor. You like the feel of it, but one day I hope you share this same awe of language, and what it can do. There are adventures to be had in stories, and you'll spend all of life telling your own. It's my great privilege to play a part.

I've found myself thinking about how I, and we, will shepherd or not shepherd that story. What we will encourage of your life. Where we will step in and speak, and where we'll step back and watch. There is no true landing on these matters, I'm afraid. There is only the process of loving, and opening our fists to release the things we cannot control.

Here is what I know: you are full of possibility, I love you fiercely, and the best is yet to come.

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