An answered prayer, spoken by trusting lips.
Our feet press against grains of sand as five pairs of little boy legs bound out before us across the stretch of beach, all gravitating to where the waves kiss the shore.
We settle into beach chairs for moments at a time to talk, to try and finish conversations began in the sun-set darkness of the night while my little ones slept.
But with little boys awake, sentences are fragments.
I've only known her through words for about a year, her face for day, a night, but I know her heart from the life details she spoke into the night about how beauty has spread out bright and vibrant across the grittiness of where her feet have tread sand and rocks, fragments of shells along the journey.
She runs after my smallest when I sink into a chair, a bee stings throbbing across the bottom of my now smoothed-by-sand feet.
I breathe in the brilliant blues of water in a moment of solitude while waves break apart at the shore, sun beats down onto water and skin, sand presses into skin.
Beauty doesn't always come gentle and easy.
And I see it clearly now.