There’s a sweetness that aches when you realize you’re living through a “last.”
It’s never announced. There’s no celebration. No confetti or ceremony to mark the moment. You just notice one day that the thing they used to do—the thing that felt so ordinary—is gone.
Like how Lucy used to call her milk “mookie.” We didn’t correct her. Why would we? It was precious, pure, and entirely hers. But the other day, she asked for her milk with perfect clarity, and my heart caught. Mookie is gone.
I watch as her legs stretch long across chairs that used to hold her curled up like a kitten. Her voice, once full of toddler babble, now asks questions about the Bible, about how butterflies are born, about what love really means.
These “lasts” sneak up slowly but leave fast.
We spend so much time tracking firsts: the first steps, first tooth, first word, first lost tooth. But no one tells you to brace yourself for the lasts. The last time they need help putting on their shoes. The last time they want you to carry them to bed. The last time their little fingers curl around yours just to cross the parking lot.
Each last is a quiet invitation to remember: this is holy ground.
That’s what this space—Glowing + Growing—is all about. Noticing the light in the small moments. Letting growth come without rushing it. Honoring the stretch of childhood as sacred, not just sweet.
So today, I’m holding the ache with the joy.
I’m watching her grow, and I’m thanking God for every last—because it means we’ve been given so many beautiful firsts.
And I’m tucking each memory into the pocket of my heart, where “mookie” still lives, and where her light shines just as brightly as ever.
Raising Light 