a thought before we leave the hospital

It's Thursday evening--our last evening alone for a very long time. Felicity is currently perched on my half-dressed chest, and her lips are crookedly smiling at me. She smells like heaven. The warmth of her little body radiates on mine. We are one again.

I keep looking out the window in my room expecting to see the mountains of Utah, but I am greeted only with faded, broken rooftops and bright autumn leaves. I don't know why I always expect to see mountains when I have a baby, but perhaps it's because my first two babies were born in Utah, and each morning I'd wake up and hobble to the bathroom in my hospital gown, I'd look out those fourth floor windows and gaze upon Mt. Timpanogos. The greatness of that mountain--coupled with the newness of my baby--always reminded me how real and good God was to me in that moment.

And although there aren't mountains here, I have been constantly reminded of God's greatness and goodness over the past two days as I've enjoyed the sweet company of my new little baby.

Welcome home Felicity. Your mama already loves you more than you will ever know.