She gave me a sunny smile and hopped out of bed, eager for the day. She was my easiest baby. When she was tired, she just wandered back to her bedroom, pulled the toybox over to the crib, climbed in, and fell asleep.
I started calling her Shine because she brought happy sunshine to our home. She smiled cheerfully and quietly participated in all the busy chaos of a large family.
“Here, go buy Shine a hat,” my dad would say, handing me a 20-dollar bill. He loved her quirky fashion sense: the hat tilted at just the right angel or the boots adding just the right touch to one of her outfits. I never knew how she would come down the stairs, but I knew she would be adorable. I kept calling her Shine because she had her own unique light and eclectic style.
As the teenage years were approaching, Shine was torn between two worlds: God’s Kingdom and the world. I saw the struggle, but things were often tense between us, and I couldn’t say the words she needed to hear. So, I knelt by my bed and cried out to God to protect and rescue my daughter, to open her eyes to Jesus.