This morning after I finished my post about the glories of my summer, I went outside. Savannah was in her grandparents' swing, pumping her legs in and out of the sunshine streaming through the maple leaves. She was humming the chorus of "Angels We Have Heard on High," the glor-or-or-or-ia part.
I smiled deep.
And just a few minutes after that Olivia was making a "masterpiece" that looked remarkably similar to a ham sandwich. When she closed the lid on the sandwich with the second piece of bread, she put it on a plate, held it high in the air and said to the room, "Look at my glory!"
David said, "Hallelujah."
Tonight in the last rays of a glorious gloaming, I floated behind my two youngest children and told them to hold on tight to the rope, to keep their elbows tucked in and their knees bent, and then I watched them take their first wobbly ski across a dark lake.
And it was so glorious that I thought I could probably give those angels a run for their money.