Solla Sollew


It was the perfect sermon at the perfect time. Yesterday morning, Father’s Day, and Maisy’s Dedication at Revision Church. We filled up a row from end to end – two Great-Grands, four Grands, and an uncle and aunt from Kiana’s side. Afterwards, clustering outside the elementary-school church for family photos, one of the Grandpas went ahead and said it. Our baby was the cutest one up there. Not one bit biased. Of course. And yet. Our little princess waved at the crowd from Daddy’s arms the entire time, and who could deny such an obvious fact?

From the Cat in the Hat to the Big Hearted Moose, Here’s What I Learned from Dr. Seuss. It’s the name of this month’s sermon series there at Revision, and I’d just been saying to Maisy before church that morning, the two of us reading books on her playroom rug. “You need more Seuss.” Those sing-song rhythms have the baby girl bouncing to the beat from the very first page of the ABC’s – Big D. Little d. David Donald Doo dreamed a dozen doughnuts and a duck- dog, too. And I swear I am not making this up, just as soon as I read it, that genius-baby emphatically added her own “DADDY!” to Seuss’ list of D’s!

And then, not two hours later, it’s Pastor Mike starting his sermon:

I learned there are troubles
Of more than one kind,
Some come from ahead
And some come from behind. 

But I’ve bought a big bat.
I’m all ready, you see.
Now my troubles are going
To have troubles with me!*

And it was the perfect sermon at the perfect time.

Three weeks exactly. Three weeks since the weekend of Jimmy’s grad party, and I remember, because I’d made a comment. Something about how stress-free I’d felt through all the whirlwind of house-selling and graduation and I didn’t know how, but I was doing great. And then, the next day, or next week for sure, just when I should have been breathing the biggest sigh of relief – it hit. The stress. And fatigue. Mental exhaustion, and okay, maybe physical, too. But it was something more, and I knew it.

I knew it last week, going out for my run, a podcast titled You’re Not the Boss of Me, and it’s Andy Stanley talking about how emotions can get the best of us. And just before tying on my ASICS I’d been praying with Kyle, confessing my stress, and a whole host of toxic thoughts taking up residence in my brain. You’re believing bull–.” My husband’s good counsel just before we prayed.

And he was right, of course. I knew it then. Knew it even truer after the Trouble in Solla Sollew and Pastor Mike’s sermon out of Ephesians 6.  He compared satan’s tactics to warfare by deception, using a scholarly term, which I didn’t write down. Not having picked up sermon notes on my way to save seats for our row of family, forced to write with pen in the margins of my own Bible, where it will stay forever next to the Armor of God. “The enemy’s entire strategy is lies.”

We don’t fight FOR victory; we fight FROM victory. Driving home later after dropping off a load of furniture for Nils in Cedar Falls, my Mom asks in a text – what was that quote?

That quote about victory, and how the enemy lost a long time ago, when Jesus climbed a hill with His own big bat, and now the best satan can do is deceive us.

he lies.

(Taking my cues from Charles Martin, who refuses to even give the creep a capital letter.)

And I hate to admit it, but I’ve been believing those lies.

Three weeks. Three weeks with a house sold and graduation finished, and the next thing on the agenda is a Writer’s Conference, and that’s when it started. You. Can’t. Do. This. Bone-weary, and is it possible for exhaustion be a bold-faced-lie?

It’s toward the end of Mike’s message, and he circles back to verse 10, and I’m flipping pages to find the place, making my notes. Be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power…

BE STRONG. I’m rewinding the past couple of weeks, and all the ways I’ve been lacking strength. And then Pastor Mike says the very thing I’ve needed, and on Spirit’s impulse I’m hand to chest, audible gasp.

Be strong – is passive.”

It’s passive.


This strength is HIS.

the enemy can only tell lies.

But my strength is found in HIS VICTORY WON.

And those troubles are going to have trouble with me…


*I Had Trouble in Getting to Solla Sollew by Dr. Seuss


L A & N Mountain

The dragonflies were out yesterday afternoon when we returned from the airport. Somehow this seemed symbolic. My boys taking flight all over the globe. We don’t even have a kid in the state. Kyle’s comment at dinner – and his tone (shhh, don’t tell the guys) was noticeably giddy.

“Do you worry?” Friends ask, thinking about international travel, news reports about a less-than-safe country. And we are aware. But we’ve been here and done this, been doing it now for a handful of years. This letting go and trusting.

“Think of prayer as your first resort, not last.” We’re five in the Jeep, counting Sidney, and I compare it to calling Dad in a sticky situation. “You don’t even need cell service to connect with your Heavenly Father.” And then, it’s Jimmy, asking, “How long should we wait in between?” Between the prayer and dialing up Dad, LOL, but he wasn’t joking.

It’s the same answer I recently gave a friend, asking, doesn’t it make me nervous – all those Spanish conversations? Four and a half years of a secret language, and me left to wonder what they’re talking about. The limitations of an earthly parent – but there are no secrets from a Heavenly Dad. He’s got this, and then some.

Colorado or Colombia. (Iowa, too, although the imagined risks seem so much less.) And it doesn’t matter if they’re scaling mountains, or attempting to travel incognito as wealthy Americans, this mom knows enough about risks to fill her days with fretting. (Did I mention Kyle’s Saturday plan has him back up on the roof?) Glen Climb

Nils scaled a mountain, his first week or so out at The Glen. A seventy-five-foot rock at Day Camp training, and he sends the text. Conquered my fear and made it all the way up! His mother’s child, and the one kid I can count on to tighten the harness and return to sea level.

Minnesota law says kids are required to wear life jackets through the age of ten. Kyle’s reading from some website this week, thinking about our lake home, knowing I’m inclined to This Particular Worry. WATER. Which, I know, is ironic. My mom still likes to tell the stories of my first swimming lessons as a terrified child, and somewhere out there is a former swimming instructor with scars to prove it. To this day I’m not a big fan of water-sports. (Nils either, which is why he worked the register at the Aquatic Center and left the life-guarding to his big brothers.) And yet. Fear of heights and water aside, it’s a toss-up which I enjoy most, lake-view or mountain.

The weekend of the Grad Party it was Luke and Ali, and Jimmy and Sidney, out at the lake. “It could be a sled run in the winter, and a waterslide in the summer!” That steep slope from future lakeside porch to water’s edge, and my husband’s got more wild notions than the young adults. “How about a zipline?” We’d been talking about creating a safe path for Grammy, and I’m wondering if it’s a harness they’ve got in mind for her, too.

Good grief. Just when you think you’ve safety raised a passel of boys to adulthood, along come the grandkids. Which is to say, I’d better be sure I’m believing my own press. About letting go and trusting, that is. Honestly, I know my limitations. I learned a long time ago I’m a limited parent (grandparent, too, if we’re thinking future) and I defer to the Father. He is sovereign. I am not.

Now. About that ladder…

Dear Jimmy


Dear Jimmy,

You are amazing. An Anomaly. Dad said so just the other day, talking to someone at a wedding.

Four and a half years you’ve been here in our country. Four and a half years you’ve been here in our home. A fraction of a lifetime. But a lifetime of change.

You were shorter than Ingri the first time we met you. We have pictures to prove it. Ingri who stands about five foot nothing. That was Camp of Dreams, and for the next thirteen months I’d dream nonstop of Two Skinny Brothers, waiting in Colombia for us to bring them “home.”

You had a home there. You remind me often. And I know. I get it. A Mom. Foster in name, but the real deal in all the ways that matter. Her love was real, and I’ve always been grateful. So. So. Grateful.

Next week, Tuesday, you’ll board a plane, destination Yopal. Your first time back since that January day, a lifetime ago. A lifetime and twelve inches. I keep trying to imagine what Doris will think when she sees you. Towering above her. So tall and so handsome. A little boy when you said good-bye. And a rascal at that. She told me as much, over ice cream. We sat across from each other at an outdoor table, someone translating. I don’t remember who. But I remember Doris. Wise. Devoted. No-nonsense. Love. 

You’ll need to keep an eye on Jimmy. The foster mom looked right into the eyes of the rookie. And no kidding.

Keep an eye, and no wonder. Those first days. Those first days were hard. Hard keeping an eye on a kid who’d up and walk home from wherever he was no matter the weather if he made up his mind. Hard keeping an eye on a kid too cute for his own good, and every girl knew it. Hard keeping an eye for that rough patch when guys will be guys and prone to trouble. Early on I learned it was God’s eye on you, and not so much your Mama’s.

But now. Lately. Lately I’ve had my eye on this kid turning young man, and OH WOW. Just wait until Doris sets eyes on you.

Finished high school, and with flying colors. Heading off to college this fall. Playing soccer. Dating Sidney. (Of course, the dating won’t be such a big surprise for Doris, based on the stories you tell about all those Colombian girlfriends.) But this is different. A lifetime different. I can’t wait for Doris to see it, too.

Will you go to church with Doris? All those stories you’ve told me about your church, and how it was there you first encountered the Spirit. Baptized here, but awakened there. I always wished we’d ignored the rules of those Bienestar ladies who said we shouldn’t go. I’d like to have gone to your church. And for some reason, church is the one thing you haven’t really found here. Which might surprise Doris. And sometimes, to be honest, it surprises me, too. Not that church is the only evidence of a heart’s devotion, and I see your devotion. But yet. If I could wish for something, it might be this.

And yet. You do know the love of your Father. Your Heavenly Dad who loves you to the very heavens. (More even than your earthly one who writes you letters and gives you a home and pays your tuition.) Your Heavenly Father has kept His eye on you every single one of your nineteen years, and He has plans for you, for a hope and a future.

Jimmy, you’re an Anomaly. A new word to add to your English. You are a person who defies the odds, and does the unexpected. The rascal kid who turns out to be an honorable young man. The rebel teen turned respected adult. The scared little boy whose heart is transformed by a life of love.

Next week you’ll go back home to see Doris, your Colombian Mama. I can hardly wait. I’m excited for her, and excited for you. But know this, too, Jimmy. Here. In Minnesota. There’s another Mama who’s waiting for you.

I love you, son, with all my heart.


Everything at Once


How are you doing with all of this? Everyone asks and I hardly know what to say. I’m not sure, to be honest.

Years ago, when the boys were young, we did this thing at the Science Museum. It was a contest to see who could most effectively think about nothing. I can’t really remember the specifics now, except two opponents went head-to-head, electrodes measuring brain activity, and the one who could most effectively shut it off came away the winner. And it was Grant. Every time. No contest.

“I think I’ve learn to shut off my brain. Kind of like Grant.” I said this to Nils in a phone conversation, me enjoying an outdoor lunch, and he was road-tripping his way through Nebraska. Thursday. He’d loaded his car the day before, said good-bye to his childhood home, Colorado bound for the summer.

“You mean like when Dad was up on the roof?” Yeah, like that. Last weekend, painting dormers, one ladder hooked over the peak, another stretching up from the ground, and from my perspective, more than the length of a man between. All day Saturday, I’d back down the driveway, trying not to look. Or think.

But that’s the least of it. It’s all these swirling thoughts of a house officially on the market, and Jimmy graduating from High School on Friday, and everything’s happening all at once. I’m telling Nils, and he’s agreeing, feeling it, too.

And then Friday night we’re pulling into the Legacy parking lot for one last high school graduation. 21 years straight at this school. We park, and I’m hustling to get inside to save our row of seats, and Kyle’s cell phone’s ringing. I hear enough to know it’s Rick, our across-the-street realtor neighbor, no doubt calling with news from the buyer. Six showings yesterday, and an offer by nightfall.

“They accepted.” Minutes later, Kyle squeezes between two sets of grandparents and Felipe, the back row our only option with 40 minutes still remaining to Pomp and Circumstance.  Grammy leans close as we talk about potential closing dates, and of course she’s as eager as any of us to have a plan.

“What’s your plan?” A couple of weeks I’ve been answering the question. Jimmy graduates. We sell the house. Move late summer. Felipe into Uncle Brian’s apartment. Kyle and I with Pop and Grammy. Jimmy joining one or the other. Break ground at the lake sometime next spring. God willing. All of it. God Willing.

This morning. Saturday. We sleep a bit later, making up for a late-night shift at the Senior Class Party. Still in PJs when Rick calls to say he’s on his way over. He’s crossing the street, and I’m dressing quick to sign papers. Papers saying This Thing Is Real, and of course I’ve known it. But now it’s official, and we’re pulling out calendars to sync up our summer plans with plans for closing, and everything is happening all at once.

It couldn’t be more perfect. Every detail the best possible outcome. Price and move date, and “Rick says they have kids.” All this emotion, kept in check, and this fact, finally, bringing the tears. “It’s a great house for a family, and I’m glad about the kids.” I look at Kiana’s hand-lettered sign, hanging above the front door. And for their children a refuge. Rick says something about an opportunity for ministry, and there’s a lump in my throat. Can a home be holy? I’m already praying.

All of this, God willing. Yesterday, before Acapulco, pre-graduation celebratory dinner, my own parents arrived with bikes and just enough time for a couple of loops around the neighborhood. “Are you sure you should do it?” Mom’s wondering if we’re having second thoughts, and I tell her what I’ve told myself a dozen times. “God has orchestrated so many details. It feels like His plan.”

And then, last night, our last graduation, taking pictures out by the pond. Kyle and I are talking to the Head of School, our lifelong friend and former neighbor. “You told that story, years ago, when you spoke at chapel.” Twenty years back, give or take, we’d put the house on the market another time, too. “Your dream house, and you felt like God told you to lay it down.” Jake retells our Abraham story, and I catch my breath. And He gave it back.  

He gave it back, a lifetime ago. This house. I remember now, I was pregnant with Nils.

And now it’s Saturday afternoon, and I sit at Starbucks waiting out two more showings and a Realtor’s Open House, already scheduled. Allowing my brain to reengage while I process thoughts the best I know how. By telling the story. This crazy story, everything happening all at once, and every detail feels like His plan.

Dance (by Luke Anderson)


Luke Anderson blesses his mom with a Mother’s Day post.

Mom likes stories. Of course, you don’t need me to tell you that; you read her blog. You know as well as anyone how she’s a sucker for a good story. They are indeed her chosen art form.

Dancing– on the other hand– not so much.

Mom’s dancing experience has been mostly confined to mother-groom and husband-wife obligatory slow dances. You know, the ones which mostly involve standing still save for the slow, vaguely rhythmic turning in circles. Now I’m not saying Mom can’t dance. I never said that, stop putting words in my mouth. All I’m saying is that if she can dance, she’s been tremendously withholding of such a talent.

One of Mom’s favorite stories (again, I’m sure you don’t need me to fill you in) is the story of Covenant. A relational God revealed throughout the ages. I’ve been reading a book which describes this relational God as a dance.[1] Apparently there were these guys who lived a long long time ago called the Cappadocian Fathers, and they came up with a word for the mystery of a three-in-one God. Perichoresis. A divine circle-dance. Because God is three, the very essence of God is loving relationship. This is why the apostle John could write with such unqualified boldness, “God is love.”[2] And this is why you and I are here. This divine love-dance simply cannot be contained, spilling over into the creation of the universe, spreading outward and drawing inward, begging each creature to start boogying. Holy Moses.

Speaking of Moses.

Have you ever seen a couple dancing in one of those can’t-look-away-from-the-car-wreck type scenarios, where you can physically feel the awkwardness somewhere in the depths of your gut? This typically happens with middle-schoolers. The girl has had her growth spurt but the boy hasn’t, the placement of hands and bodies looks to be anything but intuitive, and the four minutes and twenty-three seconds of Ed Sheeran’s Perfect can’t seem to tick away fast enough. I’ll tell you what you won’t see in this kind of dance: eye contact.

“Three times,” writes Richard Rohr, “Scripture mentions that Moses was the only one who knew YHWH face to face.” Story goes, Moses looked straight at God, and left looking really shiny.

Which, obviously, brings us to Mom. This is a mother’s day post after all. Ever since I can remember, Mom has spent a whole lot of time getting to know God face to face. And she glows. Seriously. She has felt deeply the flow of this Divine Dance in her morning quiet times, in her lingering coffee chats with dear friends, in her speedy yet contemplative walks through the woods (just ask Dad– keeping up is no easy task), and in all the unpredictable moments in between.

For Moses, spreading this divine glory to the rest of the Israelites came with mixed results. Mostly not great results, actually. People kind of freaked out about the shininess, so Moses put a veil over his face. After Jesus came, giving his people something significantly more tangible to look at, some of his followers had pretty remarkable ideas about this whole face to face business.

And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another. For this comes from the Lord who is the Spirit.[3]

But whoever looks intently into the perfect law that gives freedom, and continues in it—not forgetting what they have heard, but doing it—they will be blessed in what they do.[4]

Here’s the thing about Mom. She’s never been content to veil the glory she reflects. For those of us lucky enough to call ourselves her children, it’s mind-blowingly obvious that she’s seen and felt this deep current of love. What’s more, she doesn’t just tell us about it. She’s never been all that interested in providing us with all the right answers about what it means to gaze at the divine. In her words, in her actions, and in the still, confident peace she carries with her, she simply invites: look for yourself.

I think Mom might be the best dancer I know.


[1] The Divine Dance by Richard Rohr
[2] 1 John 4:8
[3] 2 Corinthians 3:18
[4] James 1:25

Why Worry?

Maple with frisbee

Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life? 

It was the right question at just the right time. Jesus asking, in Matthew 6, and me writing the study questions for our Small Groups at church. Our sermon series this month is all about Freedom, and wouldn’t it be great to be free from this?

Just moments ago I prayed with my husband, early morning and wrapped in a blanket out on the porch. Yesterday we woke to gloomy weather, flurries of snow overnight. But today is glorious. Clear and sunny, bird chorus heralding spring. I take coffee and a favorite book of meditations to the old dock swing, east facing and deceptively toasty. A glance toward the street, and here comes Maple with her favorite human, dog carrying frisbee, Kyle jogging at an encouraging clip with his pain-free hip. Minutes later husband scooches to share my seat, pup sprawled on concrete under feet, and both in unison exhale. SIGH. One content. The other…

Of course I know I shouldn’t worry… 

Of course, we know it.

We’d rushed home from Des Moines, week before last, rushed right into all those projects. We’d thought we had until June, or end of May at the earliest, Jimmy’s graduation party perfect timing for having the house in tip-top shape. For Sale sign going up a week or two later. But then all this whirlwind of all those buyers, house down the street selling in hours, and How soon can you show it? Realtor calling, we’re still in Iowa, boys at home holding the fort. We’d asked for a week.

One week to finish the cleaning and tackle the yard. Kyle staying up half the night replacing a microwave oven, and of course it would pick this month to die. A nephew and two brothers coming to the rescue for weekend projects, putting in doors, painting trim. Jimmy and I hauling garbage out to Bagsters, stacks of wood to a backyard fire. It’s 50 degrees and Felipe’s sporting swim-trunks and a bro-tank, power-washing the deck. And it’s all-hands-on-deck for six days straight until Monday evening when we all clear out for our first big showing. And another on Wednesday. And then.


Nothing at all after all that fury, and the thing is, we’d expected something. Some kind of something after all this rushing, and now we sit side-by-side on porch swing and what can you do but SIGH?

And of course I know I shouldn’t worry…  

He says it, and it’s what I’ve been thinking, too, all this week. Me, the one to write that study, perfectly timed. And Jesus said this, too, there in Matthew’s Gospel. Tomorrow will worry about itself. Each day has enough trouble of its own. And don’t we know it.

Yesterday morning there in my office at church, I read over questions I’d written myself.

Is there any value in worrying?
What does Jesus say is the root cause of worry?
What evidence of your Father’s care do you see all around you, all the time?

I think about Pastor Greg and his wife, Lindsey, two young boys, one special needs, babe on the way. Greg and Lindsey have this game they play. Worst Case Scenario. What’s the worst that can happen?

Later I’m back at home, basking in projects finished, house never cleaner. I love this house. Haven’t I said it a hundred times? And THIS is worst case? This house never sells and we stay right here with neighbors we love, and boys thrilled, no doubt, because which of them wants to leave it anyway? Not to mention the dog. And this is worst-case, even though we all know chances are still real good it WILL sell – because truth-be-told it’s not even officially on the market yet, those showings this week were just “Coming Soon” – whatever that means, other than a whole lot of frenzied panic for nothing. Which. About explains it.

Frenzied panic over nothing.

Two-thousand years ago and aren’t His words about as apt today as they’ve ever been?

Don’t worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes? Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?* 

And it’s late morning by now and I can still hear My Father’s birds outside my window singing, and it’s a glorious morning. And right there in the very same text, the antidote to worry, in Jesus own words.

Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.

And I breathe an Amen.

*Scripture throughout from Matthew 6:25-34


Apr. 28

One last smooch on a chubby little neck. One last wave of dimpled little hand. Four days Pops and Nana were stand-in parents while the real ones photographed a wedding in Cancun. “She’s the happiest baby in the whole wide world. But even so, I don’t know how you do it.” They returned late last night, just in time for Kiana’s birthday. And their little girl is all smiles this morning, her Mama and Dada are back. Both parents rise early, sun-kissed and sleepy, and I say it again, “I don’t know how you accomplish so much.”

Like blogging. Kiana blogs weddings, and I blog Boy Mom, and let’s just say, I tried to do it. Every day. A few sentences written during nap time. After cleaning the kitchen, and making the bed. Showering, maybe. A quick load of laundry. Computer open. Brain muddled. Add bananas to the shopping list. Type a few scattered thoughts, hit save for later. And it’s time to prep the next bottle for lunch…

She wakes every morning at a quarter-past six, my auto setting for phone alarm and perfect timing. I heat up a bottle while brewing the coffee, Maisy wondering what’s taking so long. She looks at me worried, and I know what she’s thinking. You’re not my mama – like a line from a favorite picture book. “Your mommy says you usually snooze for another hour,” I tell her quiet, bottle empty, nookie and blankies back into crib. But this is not normal, and Maisy knows it. She howls and I think, “What can it hurt?” So Nana and baby hammock-snuggle those few extra minutes, my hand on her chest, her chubby fingers wrapped around mine. Wispy blond hair, tall and tickling my neck. We rock while she dozes, me praying and savoring priceless devotion. I think of Kiana, and other young mamas, and how this might be the extent of those Daily Devotions. A quick Word, maybe, while cuddling baby. The women will be saved through childbearing… it makes perfect sense, somehow, just now.

So much joy and so much life. Every day our little girl greets us, sunshine smile sporting new bottom teeth. She’s crawling now, a world to explore. Busy like her Dad is Pops’ prediction. We once dubbed Grant our Energizer Bunny, a name likely suited for our daughter-in-law, too. A quick text message sent to Grammy Ruf, all us Grands agreeing, it’s a good thing God gives babes to the young parents.

Maisy’s all smiles as she watches for doggy, scooches close to grab a tail, Maple responding with a lick on the cheek. Neither quite knows what to do with the other, curious and cautious. But later at highchair their friendship is sealed, sticky hand meeting eager tongue. Kyle takes the leash and I’ve got the stroller for our afternoon outing, a walk to the park. There at the playground two little girls spot baby and puppy, seeking approval from their own mom and dad. “What a sweet little addition,” polite young parents comment without asking. We’re Grandma and Grandpa. I’m quick to set that record straight.

Evening comes and we’ve got two more hours until final bottle and time for sleeping. We pull out toys on the living room rug, read two more stories. Cat the Cat (this book is lame) – and Pout-Pout Fish (Oh, this one’s clever.) Maisy practices her crawling, climbing on and off Nana’s lap. We tickle-tickle, and whisper secrets, baby chuckles, the bestest ever.

Tired of playtime, we curl up with Pops on the comfy sofa. Turn on TV, scroll through Netflix, land on recordings of Planet Earth. Scrunched in close, baby between us, enthralled by the miracle of all this life. Wow, God. I say it in my head, over and over. Mouth hanging open, and how in the world did You think of all that?

All that, and this baby. And now it’s over. Now three with Maple, heading back up north to Minnesota. I keep thinking she’s with us. I say it to Kyle. I can sense her breathing. Hear her making that sound with her cute little tongue. Even at the restaurant where we meet up with the Great-Grands for a bit of lunch. I feel like she’s here.  

Back home now. A text from Kiana, looking for keys and the baby wipes. I unpack bags, check on Jimmy, in bed with a fever. Kyle’s at the computer, trying to stay caught up during his busiest season. A call from our realtor, wondering if we’d like to show our house next week?! Prom this weekend, then graduation, and life keeps moving. But I’ll try to remember. Remember to savor. Those sweetest-kind-of-busy days with our precious baby Maisy.