My Layla June. I was about to write a letter to you. It’s six months without you today and I’ve thought about you all day. I pulled out my phone and your brother immediately furrowed his little brow, shooting a very clear look my way. I put the phone down and settled my arms back around him, letting him settle his weight onto my back arm while I rubbed his belly and behind his ears with my other hand.

I've been having a hard time lately. And by lately, I mean the last couple of years, with the past year and a half, right when I got very sick, just gut wrenching. It's a season, just a season, one of many seasons, and one I know that God is doing a great work in, and one I know that comes from the result of being willing to do the work and drudge through literally an entire life's worth of muck. I know all of that but holy crap does it suck. Like, rip your guts out, break your heart, extensive amount of tears, sucky suck suckington.

(This is where I put a disclaimer that says I know right now in the world a billion people are suffering unimaginable circumstances, right here in my Country and all around the world. I know this. I am not naive. This does not go unnoticed. Click the Read More button to learn how post-it notes started to shift everything.)