Holy kind of abundance

June 2026

Last night we were headed toward the ER because my body was struggling.

The coughing and throat clearing had become relentless, and I wasn’t sure where the night was headed. Extra medication finally began to help, and eventually I found some rest, but fatigue and trepidation lingered into the morning.

Then I woke to a text from my daughter.

“Want to go to summit waves pool with the kids?”

The lazy river sounded like medicine.

So Avalon and I floated together beneath the summer sun. She curled into my arms, warm and trusting, and rested against me as the water carried us along. For a while there was nothing to do but hold her and let the current do the work.

No striving.

No fixing.

Just floating.

Just love.

Later I came home to find Jordan, Natalie, Wolfgang, and Apollo waiting with a story.

They had found a box turtle in the road and rescued it. Together we carried it to the secret garden and watched as it disappeared into the safety of leaves and shade.

Then the foam blocks came out.

The very same blocks Jordan had played with as a child.

Now his sons were building towers with them, stacking and rebuilding while their father watched nearby. I found myself marveling at the passage of time—small hands playing with the same toys that had once occupied another generation of small hands.

And then came the moment I will never forget.

Natalie smiled and said,

“Baby girl is kicking. Want to feel?”

I placed my hand gently on her belly.

More than twenty weeks along.

I spoke softly to that little heart I have not yet seen.

And she answered.

A kick.

Then another.

As if she already knew my voice.

As if she were saying,

“I hear you, Grammy.”

For a moment I felt the veil between generations become very thin.

Avalon had been in my arms that morning.

Wolfgang and Apollo were playing at my feet.

Jordan stood nearby watching his children.

And beneath Natalie’s hand, a little girl I have not yet met was already saying hello.

And then, as if the day had not already given enough, the mail arrived.

Inside was a bottle of rose oil I had been eagerly awaiting.

Excited to share it, I opened it and offered Natalie a drop. But the small insert that regulates the flow had become lodged inside the cap. When I tipped the bottle, what was meant to be a single drop became an entire outpouring.

Rose oil splashed over me, over Natalie, onto the blanket, and across the floor.

For a moment we simply stared in disbelief.

Then we laughed.

We rubbed the precious fragrance into our skin and into the blanket, surrendering to the absurdity of it all.

One drop had been intended.

Abundance had other plans.

And because the day was already overflowing with wonder, I couldn’t help but smile at the thought that perhaps this little girl might someday carry a botanical name. Rose. Lily. Violet. Iris. Magnolia.???

Perhaps not.

But forever now, whenever I smell rose, I will remember the day I first felt her kick beneath my hand.

The contrast of the day was not lost on me.

The day began with fatigue and trepidation.

It ended in what I can only describe as a holy kind of abundance.

Not abundance because everything was easy.

Not abundance because the struggle disappeared.

Abundance because love was gathered close enough to touch.

It made me wonder:

Have you ever had a holy kind of abundance day?

The kind that doesn’t erase the struggle, but somehow surrounds it with grace?

Because sometimes grace arrives in the middle of the story, not at the end of it.