In my mind’s eye, there’s a room full of beautifully wrapped boxes. Inside each box is one reason I believe in miracles. This week, the week before Christmas Day, I’m unwrapping one box at a time. The first reason was presence.

My favorite toy as a child was dolls. I had several of them growing up that I loved with all my heart. There was Matthew, the tall, curly red-haired boy with a cassette tape in his back. He told stories (which was probably not a small part of why I loved him). I took Matthew with me everywhere. There was the Little Sister doll. Even as a teenager, I loved dolls. In my eleventh grade year, I took one to school with me for absolutely no reason. For as far back as I can remember, I’ve loved dolls: dressing them, naming them, reading them stories, playing with them. I practiced being a mother for many, many years before I had my first baby. 

Joy filled my whole body like warm liquid stars when I became pregnant. I was not scared. Deep down, in the center core of who I am, I felt joy for, really, the first time in my life. I’d experienced happiness before, but this was more than that: this was unspeakable joy. It came again when I learned I was pregnant again. Becoming a mother is, without question, the biggest miracle of my life. Excitement colored every day from that moment forward. From that moment on, my first thought when I wake up and my last before I go to bed has been on them. We played so many games: Elephant in the Jungle (this is when they would climb on my back, and I’d trumpet around), the Human Obstacle Course (this was when they were very little. I’d get on my hands and knees, and they’d crawl on or under me, usually falling off at some point), Picasso Days (I’d tape butcher to the fence in the yard and carry easels outside: we’d spend hours creating art) or creating skits with Chocolate Pudding Applesauce Oranges (he was a puppet) that we preformed for their dolls. I hung the ends of a rope between two doors and made an inside swing; we put on fashion plays on a regular basis, and happily drove two hours several times a month to run around Beech Bend in KY or the Creative Discovery Museum in Chattanooga. Every day was a golden hour, every moment a love song. 

Witnessing innocence, living with its presence, is beautiful. It’s beautiful not only because it’s fleeting, not only because it’s rare, but also because it reminds me of the possibility of hope. Motherhood, for me, has been more than beautiful: it’s the biggest miracle in my life. When Breathe was born, I remember staring at her, as if I couldn’t believe she were real, and saying, “Are you a baby?“ When Alight was born, I remember sitting in the rocking chair, holding her finger with my pinkie, and being star struck. See, these baby girls made me truly believe, deep down where it matters, that God loved me. He is the only one who creates life: Alight was an answer to a direct prayer. Since life only comes from Him, that meant He trusted me enough to care for these two girls He handpicked to be mine. A relationship with Him is very personal: He knows everything about me, and that means He knew that only children could convince me that He wasn’t angry at me or ashamed of me.

They have taught me what innocence is: it’s the excitement of waiting in the grass every day for the ice cream man, it’s crying because it’s the last hour of your birthday and you don’t want it to end, it’s catching fireflies in Summer, and sleeping outside on the trampoline. Innocence is playing “The Story Game” where you take turns adding to an on-going story and Chatter Chats in the middle of the day. Innocence is looking out the window and pretending to see Pooh Bear stuck on a cracking branch; holding our hands to catch him before he could hurt himself. But innocence is not restricted to only the young in age. Innocence is also when a preteen shares her heart hurts because she trusts you; innocence is a teenager who still recognizes herself in the characters of My Little Pony; innocence is struggling over which direction your life will go because you’re afraid of making the whole choice; innocence is loving stargazing; it’s overcome with joy at seeing California that she cries. Innocence is the belief that life is out there and all you have to do is go get it. Innocence is dancing and raising your hands in praise unconcerned with who sees you because you’re doing it for God. It’s loving family traditions. A few days ago, sixteen-year-old Alight said, I genuinely enjoy putting things together for others; Christmas just becomes less about the presents as you get older. Breathe makes my bed on the days I have to go into the office because she knows that it makes me feel remembered when I come home. Innocence is in the heart and, when it’s authentic, it can make you dream; it can make you curious and creative; it can make you remember. 

And it can heal.

Everyone has been hurt. At some point, usually some point in childhood, someone hurt you in a way that drew a line in the sand. You didn’t see the world in quite the same way after that hurt. The change was so subtle you didn’t realize it for a long time; you just stopped asking for stories, or you stopped talking about that dream you’d once so passionately believed in. Once that wound scabs over, you start going through the monotony of life, checking the boxes. The presence of innocence can catch you unawares, can slip quietly past the walls, and, suddenly, you remember what it’s like to view the world through a lens of optimism, wonder and hope. I still recall the day I sat in a parking lot staring at some trees because, all of a sudden, they were so green. It was as if I’d never seen that color before. Motherhood reintroduced me to a life where pain wasn’t the focus: joy was. And it reminded me that there was still a piece of me still in awe of life. The pieces of us hidden beneath scabs, scars and scary memories are the tender, vulnerable parts of us that still matter.

Miracles are unexplained gifts: objects of wonder. Having a life surrounded by innocence gives me purpose, and allows me to see and treat people as though they are good and rare and wonderous. It’s delighted me, comforted me, given me confidence, inspired strength, and given me a front row seat to untold miracles.