Haydn

Every Wednesday I babysit two very special young boys, Haydn and Rowan. Hadyn is four and he loves to tell stories and play outside and have sword fights. Rowan is almost two, and he loves to chatter with his slowly forming words and copy his older brother and give cuddly hugs and wet kisses. Today I sat and ate my breakfast at their house and looked outside at the grey misty day. Semi-colorful dying leaves thick on the ground. Old tall trees reaching almost empty arms into the air. I prayed my prayer, or more accurately, just honestly spoke my heart on the inside, as I looked outside. I asked for what I've asked for many times, and felt that deadened but still reluctant-to-die tug of hope.

Later in the afternoon, as I stood at the kitchen sink doing lunch dishes, Haydn walked up the stairs towards me from the front door. "Hey Carla," he says, "I picked these for you." In his arms he cradled some freshly picked, half dead purple flowers. Still vibrant with their colors, and offered from the sweetness of a young boy's heart, I knew they were another of Love's bashful but unrelenting gifts to me for today.