Laying in the dark, staring at the soft, red numbers reading 4:02, I wonder if I should "try" to fall asleep again but my stomach's gurgling and I should be up anyway before I wake Sarah.
A tiny silhouette carrying a blanket and a baby doll enters the room.
Unintelligible instructions follow us out as Sarah falls back asleep.
Our daughter settles on the sofa telling me of scary dreams she can't recall.
She tells me to wake her up "when it's time", whatever that means.
"I miss Ethan," she says, laying her head in my lap. "When's he coming back?"
"Soon," I answer, rubbing her hair, having no idea when she'll she her nephew again.
"I lub you Da," she grins, turning her attention to YouTube.
Sometime, if you're lucky, you recognize holiness as it's happening. You hide such moments in your heart just like Mary did after the Magi inexplicably arrive bearing gifts because, one day, you're going to need them again.
So my heart is full of holiness right now.
It's a good thing I never wear shoes because I don't have to take them off because "this is Holy ground" and I whisper out loud, "Thank you Lord."
Che grins at me with pure love light in her eyes.
"Let's take a morning selfie," I say, and we do.
Then we snuggle and laugh as we "kick the darkness till it bleeds light."
