We are changing rooms.
After having a phone in each pocket and multiple things in each hand, Liam runs up to me,"Momma. Will you carry me?!"
Finding JOY at home, each and every day.
“Master of the Light”
I praise thee when each pastel stroke of sunrise
seems for me,
And every lustrous breeze
Ignites my soul
With glowing testament of thee.
But when my shoulders—
Burdened, bent to dust—
Refuse to lift, Forget to trust,
I glory, Master Artist of the Light,
That I can still find thee in the night.
-Jean Seifert
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