I brush the hair out of her face, because I love to look into her eyes.  I remember the moment I first caught glimpse of the girl with the light blue eyes, framed with the thick blanket of lashes.  Squished tight with tears, her screams echoed through the hallways, because she has lungs just like her mother.  My own eyes filled with joy.

I love the way she throws her head back when she laughs, how she raises her hands when she worships the God who created her.

And her eyes, the way they dance with mischief as she spins wildly around the room. The way she loves to curtsy at her audience.  When she stops, I am there to brush the hair out of her face, because I love to look into her eyes.

I love the way her face grows so serious as she digs in the wet dirt, desperately searching for bugs. The way her entire face brightens when she has found her newest “friend”.  The way she carelessly swings from the highest branch that her sweet little legs can climb to.  And then her eyes, the way they reflect the trees and water, the way they reflect her passion for dirt, and all that grows in it.  And when the day is done, I am there, to brush the hair out of her face, because I love to look into her eyes.

I love the way she wears her heart on her sleeve.  How easily she grieves for those who are in pain.  How deeply she loves.  I love the way she lays her head on my chest and says, “This is right where I belong.” And as she lays there, I will stroke her hair, and occasionally brush it out of her face, because I love to look into her eyes.

Someday the tree will remain empty, and the living room will no longer be her grand-ballroom.  The play dresses will be traded in for real ones.  One day, dirt will just be dirt, and worms will no longer be “friends”. One day she will only come to lay on my chest when her heart is broken, but she will always have a place there.  One day she will be grown, and she will step out into this world on her own.  She will brush her own hair out of her eyes.

One day she will meet a man, who loves to look into her eyes.  And I will watch her as she sits in her white dress and I will brush the hair out of her eyes, and the tears will fall freely.  I will desperately hope that the love I shared was enough, and that although she is a woman, she still finds comfort in my touch, because I will always love to look into her eyes.

In that moment, I will remember the girl with the loud screams, who tilts her head back when she laughs, who climbs as high as her little legs can carry her, who raises her hands to her Creator, who lays on my chest, and I will cherish every time I brushed the hair out of her face, because I will never regret the moments I spent looking into her eyes.