She bounces when she walks.  It is an outward sign of her inward joy.

And she has so much of it.

I don’t know how it happened.  How it happened that she is so joyful is a mystery because she started life with so little.

Almost ten years ago now, they handed her to me.  This child I didn’t carry, she was put into my arms and taken home.  We both cried the first night.  I cried because I was so frightened of this responsibility.  She cried because everything was so new and so terribly frightening.

But in that room, that night, I cried out to Jesus for both of us, and He came and held us until we fell asleep.  And in the morning, it was good.

Whatever He touches always becomes good.

This child I didn’t carry, she came and transformed our home with her joy and exuberance.  I held her, danced with her, and she laughed.  All her moments seemed meant for laughter and this structured, serious mother began to see that life was meant to be enjoyed and lived fully.  This girl fully embraced and loved with her whole heart.

Hardly anyone does that, at least not anymore.  Life is too hard, and too painful to love so freely.

But this girl who had lost everything in birth was filled with such joy in life.

Jesus held us through the difficult, uncertain days.  The days where I faced the reality I was not her birth mom and they could take her from us at any moment, even though our hearts had become entwined.  Oh, how I hated and yet, loved those days.  As I held her close, we danced, and I prayed.

Often even now, she begs me to tell her about those days where I danced with her in my arms and cried out to Jesus to let me keep and protect my bundle of heavenly joy.  Her face shines and then she grabs me close with her tender voice, “I am so glad God gave me to you, Mommy!”  And I believe her.

Does she know how glad I am that God gave her to me?

Even those long moments when she slows me down.  When she takes the LONG way around to our destination, to talk about and seize the moment.  Isn’t life about enjoying the journey?  That is another thing she teaches me about life.

Sometimes my frustration grows as I wait on her.  I wait…as she says hello to every person she sees.  I wait…as she runs to hug them and remind them of their value-in case they have forgotten.    And most of us do forget, until she hugs us close and reminds us how much we are worth to Jesus.   And in my impatience, this child so filled with His heavenly joy teaches me a little more about life.

In the kitchen, I am busy preparing dinner and she bursts on the scene begging me to listen to something new she has learned.  I am running behind fixing dinner…not now.  Still she insists and something inside me tells me to listen.  I turn in weary resignation to her bright smile.  From ear to ear, she smiles as she begins to recite.

It is so familiar.  My brain tries to forget dinner…to place her words in my mind.

She is reciting Isaiah Chapter 6-every word in all her exuberance.  She is describing the glory and splendor of the Almighty in the words of this prophet, Isaiah.   Thank you,  Adventure in Odyssey, for teaching her while I was so busy.  Somehow, I sense she understands it better than I.

Her eyes look up and she smiles at me again as she says those final words with emphasis, “Here am I, Lord, send me.  Send me.”  My heart swells in love and gratitude as I realize indeed that He did send her.  He sent her to me.  To my structured and too-busy world, so I would see Him every day in all His glory.

I turn away and the tears come.  Oblivious, she hugs me again and runs off to something else, to someone else.

I chose to keep her home for the first years as she struggled to learn.  She would try hard and I would get so frustrated.    Some days she would cry when her little filing cabinet of a mind wouldn’t open to remember.  And I would cry that I couldn’t help her get it opened.  Failure filled my mother heart.  She would tell me how sorry she was, pat my arm, and remind me everything would be okay.

Hardly anyone does that, at least not anymore.  Life is about blaming everyone else, not saying we are sorry and encouraging each other.

We plodded on until she learned to read, to add, and finally, multiply.  It was a great victory for all of us.  And so today she runs off to something else, to someone else.  All the way down the hallway, she smiles and pulls me close whispering, “Thank you, Mommy, for letting me come to this school!”

She bounces as she walks, barely containing her joy.   I watch as she fills her new locker with pictures of her home and her family.   She says it’s because she will miss seeing our faces all day, every day.

Hardly anyone does that, at least not anymore.  Life has become centered around us, not loving others above ourselves.

And I pray for her; I pray they don’t tease away her sweetness, or force her joy to be buried deep down until she no longer bounces when she walks.

“…unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven.” (Matt. 18:3)   She isn’t perfect.  She talks too much, cries too easily, and fights too often with her siblings, but somehow I think Jesus thought of her when He said this, for I believe she has entered in.

This child I didn’t carry, she has taught me so much that I need to know about what is important in life with her simple, sweet ways.

And maybe, she really is smarter than all of us.

As I watch her bounce off down the hall to something else, to someone else, I cry out to Jesus one more time to hold us both.

Because whatever He touches always becomes good.