She is not the baby I held. She is not the toddler who walked with me. She is not the same.
We are not in the small house that squeezed the three of us. We are not in that place that barely housed the four of us. We are not the same.
It’s odd to address matters with the approach of the baby in the small house when things are not the same.
Sometimes there’s a need to do things differently.
(Photo by Juliane Liebermann on Unsplash)
For His Name’s Sake
Shalom
C. L. J. Dryden
Life With CD 