|Last week, my eight-year-old foster daughter came bouncing through the back door. She had that look on her face that could only mean she was bursting at the seams to tell me something exciting. Anxious to hear what she had to say I stopped what I was doing. "We planted bulbs at school today," she proudly reported. "Mine is white. It's for you for Mother's Day!"
I don't think she fully understood the impact of those innocent words, as she has no idea how long I have ached to hear them. Thirteen years! Thirteen years of skipping church, pretending the holiday really didn't mean much to me. And now, here I was, standing in my kitchen with a little girl who couldn't possibility know what she just did. I turned quickly to wipe away my tears, gave her a big hug and out the door she went just as fast as she came in.