Children are without a doubt the greatest blessing any aspiring parent could ever be granted with. Watching them grow to be more or less who they aspire to be, hey bring so much joy and fulfillment to the life of a parent. The struggles of raising them though can easily be disregarded once they themselves have fully grown into the persons that they have always dreamed of becoming. When that time comes does not matter, for then will they have already been on their own while the parents watch from the distance in glee.
My husband and I have tried hard for many years to have a child of our own, but those years before have always seen us fail. Many reasons stand behind each of our failures at conception, but none of those times matter now that we finally have one of our own. Even the doctors have thought it impossible for us to conceive, but we have finally defied the odds over a decade ago upon the birth of our own little miracle girl. We have been told several times before to stop trying since it would only be fruitless, but our faith in Him Almighty and in the impossible have kept us strong in these trying times. Now that we have proven everyone else wrong with the birth of our still growing daughter, no words can truly encapsulate just how grateful I am for this and for hopefully many more blessings to come for our family.
“Good afternoon, honey,” I hear my husband greet, turning to see him walking into the kitchen towards me. “I’m back from work.”
“You’re back early,” I smile, greeting him back with a peck on the lips. “I was just making afternoon snacks for me and for Micah.”
“Oh, you didn’t make any for me?” he jokes as he sets his laptop bag down at the kitchen counter.
“You didn’t exactly warn me that you’ll be done early today,” I laugh. “Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure I made a lot anyway.”
“What’d you make?” my husband asks.
“I made a batch of red velvet cupcakes,” I answer, glancing over at the kitchen time and then at the oven where the cupcakes are still baking. “They should be done in about five minutes.”
“Did you do them the way I like them?” he requests.
“Yes, they all have a cream cheese filling,” I giggle. “Micah likes them the same way you do.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” my husband chuckles. “Speaking of our daughter, where is she?”
“She’s gone out to get more berries for her paints,” I reply.
“How long has she been out?” he inquires.
“It’s been about an hour now,” I respond. “She’ll be back pretty soon, I think. It is just berries, after all.”
Our daughter Micah has since proven herself to be quite the painter. I remember the very first canvas and easel that we have given her long ago while she has still been a toddler, her priceless face when we have given her that set along with her first paintbrush and poster paint set. She could hardly contain her excitement then as she has gotten to painting straight away, her fingers always covered in paint. We have only assumed that she would have just been enjoying her newfound hobby, but her early works have easily showed her brilliant potential for the visual arts. By then, we have begun to believe in her potential and have over time supported her by providing her with more supplies and mediums. We have even granted her a little art studio of her own so that she could better hone her budding talent for the arts.
Micah’s paintings usually portray iconic scenes from the Bible, easily a difficult theme because of the complexities of the stories behind such scenarios. She claims that our intensely devout faith has inspired her to artistically present religious images, and she paints them exceedingly well. Her style is reminiscent of the humanistic Renaissance style—yes, her art is that vivid and detailed. Her attention to detail as well as the brightness of the colors that she uses never fails to astound us especially considering her age. She is only now just a preteen, but she paints like she has studied her whole life in an art school. I would have never thought that we would be blessed with a girl born with both beauty and talent.
“Do you have any idea what sort of berries she’s picking out?” my husband asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen any berries that come up with that new color she made.”
“I honestly don’t even think that she’s finding berries,” I admit. “I’m pretty sure it’s some whole other fruit that she probably doesn’t know the name for.”
“Well, we do have an artist for a daughter,” he points out. “We didn’t exactly raise a botanist.”
“You’re right,” I laugh.
Right then, my kitchen timer goes off just as my oven beeps. I rush over to the oven with my oven mitten on, opening the oven lid to take out the finished batch of cupcakes and then closing it. I place the tray on the counter, right in front of my husband now ogling at the sight of the perfectly raised pastries.
“Wow, they look amazing,” he remarks as I slap his hand off the freshly baked goods.
“Wait, I still have to top it off with some frosting,” I giggle as I start topping off each cupcake with cream cheese frosting, twirling my piping bag around each one while my husband watches with great intention.
“I don’t think any other cupcake beats the ones you make,” he beams.
“How sweet of you,” I marvel. “Yes, I meant that pun.”
The moment I finish off each cupcake, my husband quickly reaches out for one. I do nothing to stop him this time because I understand just how much he loves my pastries. In fact, he is a fan of everything I cook and bake. I doubt there is anything I have made that he ever truly dislikes.
Right when he takes a huge bite out of the cupcake, we both hear the back door swing open then close. We both turn to find Micah walking into the kitchen, swinging a basket around in hand. She seems to be in quite the mood.
“Hello, I’m back,” she greets as she rushes over to hug us. “Oh, you made cupcakes.”
“Yes, I made your favorite,” I smile back at Micah, gesturing her over to the counter while her father grabs another one. “Come get one.”
She quickly grabs a cupcake for herself, setting her basket on the floor beside the counter while doing so. She takes that first bite, her smile encompassing all of her face as she relishes in the sweet-and-sour pastry. I only ever see that face when she eats something she enjoys, and that face always shows whenever she bites into my cupcakes. She may surprise me at times, but this is one thing about her that I can easily predict.
“There’s nothing like Mom’s cupcakes,” Micah grins, her mouth stuffed.
“You said it,” my husband affirms, his mouth just as full.
“Guys, please watch your manners,” I laugh as I finally take a cupcake for myself, gorging right into the mouth-watering pastry whilst sitting around the kitchen counter along with the two of them.
While chowing down on the cupcakes, I peek over at the contents of Micah’s basket. I find in it a variety of berries piled high up until the rim, the variety in color and in size quite a relieving sight. The past few days have had me quite curious about the source of her new paints since they tend to emit a particularly foul odor. At times, she tries to mask the smell with an air freshener but to no avail. I have even gone into that room, but I could never find the source. I have even sniffed out her latest work in progress and felt her pigment with my own hand, but my own knowledge can’t supply me with information about her bizarre new source. It almost smells rotten.
“What were you doing out there, sweetie?” he asks. “Your mother here says you went out for about an hour.”
“I was just picking new berries to make into more paint,” she answers, producing a heterogynous handful of berries in her hand. “This time of the year looks like the best time of the year for these fruits. I mean, look at how bright their colors are.”
“They sure are vivid,” I agree, noting the striking hues of each fruit in her hand. I have always known that fruits grow best in temperate regions, but I suppose that this time finds them growing at their optimal rate. These look just like the sort of fruits one would find on advertisements or on the covers of canned fruits. One does not have to be a chef nor an artist to appreciate just how pretty these ones are.
“They’re going to seriously bring life to my painting,” Micah chimes as she returns the berries into her basket. “Well, I’m off to mush these up into new pigments.”
“Hold on, why not give me some?” I beg. “I could really use some blueberries for this blueberry cheesecake I’m planning to make.”
“Sure, here you go,” she rejoices as she hands me a handful of blueberries onto the kitchen counter, her eyes wide and twinkling with anticipation while the corner of her mouth drools at the thought. “I can’t wait for that cheesecake. I can already imagine tasting it.”
“Don’t get me started thinking about it,” my husband chuckles. “Now go on ahead making your paints.”
We watch Micah leave the kitchen and head upstairs to her studio where she spends most of her waking free time. As she turns out to the hallway, I hear something heavy rattle inside her basket, quite like a thick tree branch moving about in a pail in hand. There is no way a basket of berries would make such a sound, and I could not earlier see anything in that basket that would produce such an unnerving noise. I take a quick peek into her basket to find something peeking through the berries that almost makes my heart stop.
With that bone peeking out, let us just say that I now understand what has happened to that hiker a few days ago.