The sun streams through trees, dappling its light across the deck. Its brightness bathes my upturned face in warmth. I sigh, and the sound is a whisper of praise. It is a perfect moment, and I drink it in slowly, savoring its pleasure.
Every day has at least one perfect moment.
But sometimes they are hard to see.
I’ve lost them at times, blinded by sleepless nights and deafened by screaming children. They have hidden behind clouds of sorrow and drowned in seas of tears. I’ve forgotten at times that the valley walk is arduous, and green pastures lie beyond my vision.
Maybe perfect moments are missed by perfect people.
Perhaps they are taught by less-than-flawless occasions.
When we brought our first baby home, we laid her on our bed. It was scary, a thing of life and death, responsibility and permanency. We stood back and gazed at her pink perfection and wondered, now what do we do? We were so unprepared, babies ourselves.