Friday, March 15, 2013
I've been soaking in old memories of my time in Galilee, which was a whole two years ago at this very time in the spring. That area of Israel is peace at its best, and a good chunk of my heart can be found there at the shoreline. 

We had class in the morning, traveled around the lake in the afternoon, adventured, swam, and lounged at the beach. I read daily on the shore as the sun rose - right at the water's feet - and I wrote everything that I thought and felt in my journal. 

It's surreal to think that I was there - a student, a tourist, a visitor - and that now, two fast years later, I am here - a graduate, a wife, a mother. 

And I am happy here, partially because I lived some life there. 

There is nothing grandiose about Galilee's appearance. Yes, it is beautiful in March - it is green and warm and sunny. But seasons are fleeting, and we were told that Galilee is dry and hot and brown come May. The lake looks like any other lake. The towns surrounding it aren't fancy or big or flashy. Many of the structures above its shores are anciently old, stone piled atop stone, and vacant. 

But that's where its impressiveness so simply lies: quiet, peaceful, unassuming Galilee was all that was needed to stage not a few amazing and thrilling miracles. 

I've decided that mothering is oh so similar. Every day is nearly the same, and there is very little flashiness, fanciness, or glamor at the face of it. I help Olivia. We play, eat, clean up, laugh, read, yawn, and sleep as consistently as an old sea's waves. But just by being that simple - the job of a mother - the stage is readied for a daily miracle to occur: the growth of a new baby girl.

She doesn't need anything but peace and steadiness to play out the miracle of growing up. 

It is an honor to set her stage. 


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