You walked across the narthex this morning, proud as punch, your steps attracting attention from around the room. You are swagger, and pretty much everyone at church was swoon.
You are strong. You tug on hair and resist diaper changes and win at keep-away.You are sad. You cry when we cut off your cottage cheese consumption and shed tears over a gate shut to the stairs.
You are happy. You laugh when you peek from behind the curtains and when we tickle the folds beneath your chin.
You are smart. You put puzzle pieces in their places and you point to animals on our phones.
You are a good brother. You are brave. You are stubborn. You are silly.
You are eleven months old and you are all of these things, yet I can’t find an adjective to hang on to. You are everything, our everything.
You spent part of this afternoon surrounded by family celebrating an aunt's 94th birthday. You sat on her lap while she predicted you may become the president. You are capable.
I'm not sure what you'll become, James Tolliver, but what I do know is how much you are loved. All that you will be and everything you are, loved.
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