A Letter from Parley Street

Dear David,

I cannot get over the feeling here.

All day long I thought about how I would tell you about it all, and never could think of a way.

I think it's because a miracle happened here. The hand of the Almighty God rested right here, on this bend in the river. And you can still feel it. It is throbbing in the air and hanging in the trees. It's baked into the red bricks and shining off the mullioned windows. I can feel it humming along my skin and catching in my throat. I can hardly breathe when I think of the staggering amount of faith it took to walk away from here and into the wild west.

My heart is overflowing.

After a day of pioneer games and musical productions and stops at the tin shop and the little bakery, we ate our dinner on the lawn next to the wagon sheds. Afterwards, we took a quiet walk down Parley Street, the same street that the wagons rolled down as they left their beloved city, and straight into the Mississippi.

We watched the sun set in the west and thought about their sacrifice, thought about how truly vast and terrifyingly unknown it must have felt then, looking westward, with all your world condensed into a small wagon behind you.

The children are feeling it too. As we walked back in the dark, they talked about eternity, about creation, about "after this," and about God's perfect plan. Each in their own way--Caleb shy and reverent, Olivia waxing poetic, Savannah asking questions, Ethan smiling up at me the whole time. You would have loved it.

They are in the other room now, gathered around Caleb's iPod watching Arthur, giggling, and if you were here you would be laying next to me listening to my heartbeat and wondering about the miracles of your own life.

We are so blessed. Did you know?

So blessed, there is no way to tell it all.

All my love,