On love and light

Years ago, my friend Wendy described a beautiful way to explain a family's love that involves lighting a candle with a lit candle (you) as an example of giving all your love. You still have so much love left. That newly lit candle (your spouse) and any other new candles (children) get all your love and none is diminished by the other.

I still remember her telling me this and thinking that it was such a concrete way to show how infinite love is.

I love my children equally. Equally, but differently because they are different people.
I love the way J still asks for our bedtime routine. The same one we've had since he was an infant.
I love the way S has to kiss me in the same place and the same number of times I kiss him.

I love the children they are now, reminisce about the small babes they once were
and look forward to the men they will become.

But this post is about my youngest. Today is his birthday. My sweet little baby, who at 9 lbs 14 oz was never really little, is eight today. This passage from The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver takes my breath away every time I read it:

"But the last one; the baby who trails her scent like a flag of surrender through your life
when there will be no more coming after...oh, that's love by a different name.
She is the babe you hold in your arms for an hour after she's gone to sleep.
If you put her down in the crib, she might wake up changed and fly away.
So instead you rock by the window, drinking the light from her skin, breathing her exhaled dreams.
Your heart bays to the double crescent of moons of closed lashes on her cheeks.
She's the one you can't put down."

Happy Birthday, my angel. I love you.