A soft warm tear came down my face within minutes of waking today. As soon as I opened my eyes, i felt the ache. It's my first birthday without my mom. Today I am 38 years old.

Here is an excerpt from Where the Breath Begins by Jan Richardson:

Dust dry, Desert Dry, Bone Dry, And here in your own heart dry, the center of your chest, a bare valley, stretching out, every way you turn.

Did you think this was where you had come to die?

It's true that you may need to do some crumbling, yes. That some things you have protected may want to be laid bare, yes. That you will be asked to let go and let go, yes

But listen, this is what a desert is for.

If you have come here desolate, if you have come here deflated, then thank your lucky stars the desert is where you have landed, here where it is hard to hide, here where it is unwise to rely on your own devices, here where you will have to look and look again and look close to find what refreshment waits to reveal itself to you.

I tell you, though it may be hard, to see it now, this is where your greatest blessing will find you.

I tell you, this is where you will receive your life again.

I tell you, this is where your breath begins.

The last year of my life was incredibly significant, and while one would never guess that a birthday post would include language about a desert - I had more bone dry days than I could have ever imagined. If I could picture myself I would have grown 50 feet tall from the stretching out my body to cover the ground beneath me. And I know, that because of that stretch, I received my life again. I began breathing at a different pace, and was as sure as I have ever been that the breath in my lungs was filled by a Spirit so much greater than me. I had never known as many days where I literally thought, I cannot take this in, my body cannot hold more, and yet, found the day progressed hour by hour and I found my way to rest each night and to new mercy every morning.

Last year I welcomed my son into my life. It was all quite unimaginable. It was a time of beauty, gut-wrenching pain and anxiety as one woman's grit and courage lead to us having the unthinkable privilege to be trusted with her baby, Mateo, to raise and love for the rest of our lives. The timing, the match, the change it has brought our family to go from a family of three to a family of 4, from raising a girl to a boy, and from having a 7 year old to having a 1 year old again, it has been radical. All the fear and hope wrapped up in the months preceding and following our adoption of Mateo were absolutely brutiful.

I left my job this year, a job that taught me far far more than any set of skills I have ever acquired at work before, but that spoke deeply to my soul and witnessed loudly to me about the souls of many many others who I had a distinct honor to know and hear parts of their story. It was not a workplace I wanted to leave and in most every way felt untimely to go, but the call away was as strong and clear, so I let go.

And also, this year, I not only lost my mother from this Earth to brain cancer, but this year I saw death up close in a way I also could have never imagined. This year I stood by, quite near, as so many pieces of who my mother was for 36 of my years became foggy bc of the horror of watching the cancer take its rule over her body and mind. She was the strongest, wisest, most comforting influence of my life, and the gap of not having her here feels like the grand canyon in my days.

My literal first breath came around 3:30pm at St. Vincent's hospital in Birmingham, Alabama to a 29 year old mother, 30 year old father, 4 year old brother and 2 year old sister. I can picture my mother seeing and holding me with utter delight. I spent all 13,870 days of my life knowing of her deep love and hope for me. And her voice, although not through sining happy birthday or writing a beautiful card, is as clear now as it ever was and I sense her nearness today. I am so glad my mother had the chance to meet my son. I grieve he will not grow up with her presence, but I have a stronger drive that my love and care for him will reflect what I have learned from my mother. That her spirit will be carried on through how I may mother.

I have much desert land to sort out still, much grief still bamboozling my days and kicking the dry dust up in my face. All the control I have lost in the last year to govern or understand how the days will play out has brought me to a sweet place of openness, even curiosity, and a bit of anticipation for the refreshment yet to be revealed.