We woke early, all of us.  Him to brew the coffee and ready for work, me to roll the dough, sprinkle the cinnamon, tidy away last night's remnants and the baby to look in bewilderment at the mixer, at the darkness outside the window, to sit on the floor with his nose scrunched and his hair poking and the empty yellow mustard bottle clutched in his chubby hands.

Our house hums in the morning, creaks and pops and gasps as the heat rushes in and the cold is pushed into corners, under the doorways, inside closets.  The rolls rose, the baby cheered, husband left, the grandparents came and a second pot of coffee brewed and this is fall.  Cinnamon smelling mornings, cold and dark but in the coziest way.  This is home: more than the house and the warmth and the coffee pot, it is three people stumbling over each other in the morning, two people trying to parent and marry and be the truest followers of Him.

It is holding fast to the promises: ours to each other and Him, His to us.  It is going back to them over and over, speaking life into the dying, speaking steadfastness into the wandering.  And the promises are what keep us, the promises shape prayers and raise our hearts and already he is surrounded by them, already he is humming along as he grows and ages closer to the days when he will speak his own out loud.

My hope is they will be so familiar, so a part of his heart, his mind, his very cells that he will recognize early what many do not until it is late: the Maker of promises and the Keeper of promises is full of love for His children.

I can promise you this:

Before you were He knew you, before you breathed, He loved and purposed you.  He will never leave  you, He will never abandon you.  He will not let anything separate you.  He sits at the side of the Father and He speaks grace over you.  He is the only way, the only truth; He is life and He is good and, my son, He is easily found.