Today I did something that made my busy world come to a complete halt. I placed my book on Lettie's shelf in her now finished nursery.
Not the paper drafts and sketches on the kitchen table. Not on the porch where I spent days sketching. Or the camp trailer where I spent the summer dreaming up what went on in our little cow dogs heads.
But on her shelf.
And suddenly the room felt quiet in a way I wasn't prepared for. I stood there for a minute with a rush of fear, and happiness. Just staring. Letting it sink in. Would I be enough for another human being? Would I make her happy like my mother made me?
I looked again at my book. A story line I once carried in my head as we worked cows in New Mexico and Arizona all summer. While we put out salt blocks with Charlie and Chuck running beside us or riding on the flatbed. Now lives on a tiny shelf in a nursery, waiting patiently for a little girl who hasn't even arrived yet.
There are days when life moves fast. Cattle to check, meals to make, projects to finish, laundry to fold. Then there are moments like this that slow everything down. Moments that remind me just how much has changed, and how much is still ahead.
I thought about all the versions of myself that led here.
The little girl that loved to draw.
The note books full of random stories.
The young woman who dreamed quietly.
The ranch wife learning as she goes.
The girl who hit "publish" with butterflies in her stomach.
The Mother-to-be who already loves deeper than she knew possible.
All of her showed up in that moment. I thought about how someday Lettie will pull that book from her shelf and ask Jacob or I to read it. Maybe she'll recognize the characters are napping on her front porch as she reads. Maybe she'll giggle at the drawings that took me hours and months. Maybe she'll give me ideas for the next book. Maybe she won't think much of it at all.
But I will.
Because that silly little kids book represents courage and creativity. It represents choosing to try even when it feels scary. It represents building something with your mind and the talents that God gives each of us.
I feel overwhelmingly thankful. Blessed in the quiet, steady way that fills you.
If you would have told me 3 years ago that I'd be standing in a nursery on our ranch, married to a blonde cowboy, waiting for our daughter, placing my own children's book on her shelf. I don't think I would have believed you.
April can't come soon enough.