My dreams of giving you a natural, simple welcome into the world were long gone, yet that morning I felt overwhelming peace. Every step of the way you and God made the decisions very clear. Subtlety is not your forte and your birth was no different.

Our little wildflower girl. Yours is an untamed life planted not in any kind of mannerly row, but in a hidden, marvelous pattern known only to you and to God – impossibly perfect in its imperfection. No planter, no garden, no field is capable of containing your spirit; not even earth was able to hold you for very long.

These seasonal transitions are tough, babe. We move from summer to fall once more, but you’re still gone. The undeniable passage of time is a halting reminder of the permanence of death.

But hand in hand with grief, the changing seasons are also a reminder of life and the simple fact that we’re still here living it.

And what a beautiful privilege that is.

For our family, Father’s Day didn’t look like a Target ad; there was no barbecue on a shiny new grill, no whiskey glasses and leather chairs, no new TV and no new watch. 

Our Father’s Day celebration did include all of your Grandpas. 

It also included a trip to the cemetery. 

I picture your grandma walking with you around our property, embodying patience and grace as she watches you toddle around, stopping to explore and examine every. single. thing.