**because her birthday is on sunday,
sharing this again...**
Oh that girl of mine,
that curly haired bookworm daughter
whose emotions are more mysterious than
whose soul is deeper than the ocean's abyss.
And when she sits in silence, staring at what
only she knows,
I wouldn't dare interrupt her without necessity,
for her thoughts are great,
and I know that God is speaking to her,
that they are dining together on a feast of
ideas, of love,
communing there in her moments of silence.
And when she tiptoes as an Indian of old
under the immense California Oak trees,
binoculars hanging around her neck,
I leave her long to search out the Western Scrubs,
the shockingly orange Hooded Orioles,
though responsibility is washed away in her adventures.
For here she is basking in His goodness,
aglow in the beauty she finds in His creation,
worshiping Him by loving what He has made.
And when she cries, her tears flow colored,
when she reads, she's lost for hours,
when strangers speak to her, she shies away as if
all has stopped and now the world is focused only
a place where she finds herself desperately uncomfortable.
She is that deep, quiet soul that He has made her,
growing in untold ways every passing day.