Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

When I think of the purest form of love, I always remember the first day I became a mother. Six, eleven, twelve, the day our Belle arrived. This is a praise song in honor of our love for her, with reverence for the grace of God in our journey so far.

For to be her parents is fire. Is air. Is music arriving without warning. It is the genesis of something so close to magic that we have stopped trying to name it. Fourteen years ago, on this very day, our Belle, launched us into a love we had no map for — and we have been grateful for the lostness ever since.

You have moved through life like water that knows its way. You have led us into rooms full of light, and taught us — quietly, by example — the insistent grace of praise. Of blessing God even when the blessing costs something. Of lifting hands in the middle of pain and meaning it.

Because of you, we soar. Because of you, dreams feel less like longing and more like freedom.

With you, we reclaim the stories we never forgot — the ones that remember our fathers, the ones that carry your name like a lantern. Lotanna. The name itself is treasure. A whole inheritance folded into sound.

Happy Birthday, our dearest Belle. You are the reason we stand tall — on the shoulders of men who loved us first, men who never stopped believing, men who remind us, through you, to live this life gently. Live it with fire. With hope. With wonder for the whole impossible gift of it. We love you Belle…