When a daughter was born

I was born two decades ago.
Knuckles white from the cold blizzard night and the pains and fears of both labor and of a child born into a century of war.
My mother's whole world sighed, and a baby cried.

The daughter of lords and rulers, immigrants and refugees, farmers and fathers who knew nothing.
Nothing of a God who was heaven-sent; the Lord and Ruler of all who welcomed the alien and freed the oppressed from the hands of the wicked.
The God who took the plow to a soil so barren and bruised, making all things new.
A Father who said "Come. You are my daughter."
A Father who places our identity in His Son.

On our birthdays we celebrate our creation, our foundation and our survival.
What if we lived every day with awe and wonder, reflecting on the past and being hopeful for the future?
If we spent every day thanking Abba for being our Father, for knitting us together and preserving us for another year.
From dust I have been created, and to dust I shall return - but what is it that I do with this time in between?
With this Grace that I have been given so freely yet forget about so easily.
Perhaps every day is a birthday when we remember that we are living on gifted time.

These last 366 days have made me no taller. I'm certainly no richer.
But do I know my Father any better?
Do I know Him any better than stained glass and recited prayers?
Or do I know Him as the one who bore me, boring a whole into my heart and soul that was looped through a string tied around His neck; two hearts beating together, never far from the other.