My dear, sweet Ava,
In some ways it seems so long ago that I first held you in my arms. When I look at your little sister, I can scarcely believe that you were ever her size. How amazing these past four years have been, my love! How wonderful it's been to get to know your heart and see you becoming who God made you to be.
In many ways, though, it has gone so fast. How did you come to be four years old? These years have flown, as I suppose years do. They have been filled up to the brim with love and giggles and struggle and weariness and joy. They have been full of you. I am so delighted that you are mine.
You are so beautiful, my love. I adore your red curls, your dimpled cheeks, your soft hazel eyes, your freckled nose. Sometimes your daddy and I look at each other and are truly intimidated. And sometimes we are just scared. We are going to have to get a big stick.
It's not only your physical beauty that stuns us, though. Seeing who you are becoming, my dear, who God made you to be, is one of the greatest pleasures in my life. You're beautiful. I know he's not done with you yet, but I see His work in you and the ways he has already gifted you, and I'm in awe.
You love people. We returned to church after being gone for several weeks and you had to talk to everyone. I don't think I exaggerate when I say that you talked to at least a hundred people that day. You make friends wherever you go. I love that about you. You are also very creative, and I find you picking berries, making a picnic lunch, riding a train, or a whole host of other make-believe activities. You love books. You would let me read to you all day long if I could. You also love for me to make up stories, which is sad, because I'm truly terrible at it. I don't think you notice, though. You are very verbal, and I find myself sending your Daddy text messages of the funny things you say. I love to listen to you.
A few weeks ago, while you were on a date with your Daddy, you asked him why he was looking at the road. "I'm driving, Ava," was his response. "Oh," you said, "I'm looking at all the things God made." When your daddy reminded you that all created things--the flowers, the sky, the stars--were made to reflect His glory, you said, "When I saw the flowers, I thinked of Jesus." I pray that you always do, sweet girl.
These hints of how God is beginning to reveal himself to you bring me great joy. You love bible stories and often ask me to tell them to you at home, in the car, in the doctor's office. I often hear you telling them to your brother. You also ask really good (sometimes really hard) questions. Like when we had a 15-minute conversation about why God would send the Israelites into exile if he loved them and why he allows the people He loves to suffer. Even so, there is a stubbornness in you that has been driving me to prayer. Not last week you announced, "I'm hard hearted." And you are. So am I. You so often want to go your own way, to do your own thing. I told your Daddy the other day that it's like your heart is running away from me. You often ignore me or disregard me. You think that you can do whatever you want as long as you have what seems, in your four-year-old mind, to be a good reason. It breaks my heart.
Repentance is hard, but I keep calling you to it. You don't like to admit that you are wrong. I don't think you yet see your need for Jesus. From time to time, you tell us that you will try to do the right things, that you will try to be perfect. I hope you will see soon that you will fail at that. I pray for that, love, not because I want your heart broken, but because it already is. I want you to see it, so you see His goodness in spite of your brokenness. It is only when we see our inability to live up to God's standards that we see His grace as truly amazing. It is amazing, Ava. I pray that you would lean into it. I pray that the weight of your sin and His grace towards you in spite of it would produce in you a deep and abiding love for Him. In truth, I pray the same thing for myself.
Mama
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