Christmas reading

Sometimes, blog posts carry great literary worth, and could even be described as works of art. This is one such post:

This is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to write in my entire life. The hardest and yet the most beautiful. As I even just begin to type here, late, in the dark in my room alone with my girls sleeping next to me, their little faces barely visible from the glow of the the same candles that flickered in a very special room one week ago, my heart starts aching thinking of where I was at exactly this moment last week.

A week. How can it already have been a week? I’ve thought a million times what I’m going to write here and how I’m going to begin and what order I’ll put it in and I think I’ve been so afraid to come back here…so afraid of not doing justice this very precious night…of leaving something out…of attaching simple words to an event that is so far from simple, it might just not be possible. But I need to get it out. I don’t know how it’s going to come or if it will make sense, but I’m just going to write. And when I get stuck, I will pick up this tiny blessed life beside me and hold her tight. I will breathe her in and remember…

Oh, here it goes.

The story of our daughter’s birth.

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