Lucy.

My brother and his wife are currently expecting their fourth baby. They have three delightful boys already and learned yesterday that number four is, surprise! Another boy. He'll be grandchild number 11 for my parents. Grandson number 10.

And then there is Lucy. I always joke that the only reason Lucy was able to join our family was that she brought a boy with her.

A challenge indeed to grow up in a sea of cars and trucks and Legos. Don't get me wrong. She has barbies and dolls and dress up clothes and all things frilly and pink, but it's not the same is it? Playing alone, or perhaps capturing a few minutes with Mommy before dinner is made, or bills are paid.

I think though, that perhaps Lucy's Heavenly Father knew what she would be up against and gave her all the tools that she will need to navigate the testosterone and the wrestling matches, the remote control helicopters, and the train sets.

Lucy, you see, is mighty. She is quite capable of getting her way, and has convinced even the most boyish of boys to play Goldilocks in her puppet show, or prance around in high heels and a boa. She has the coordination and speed of a natural athlete... easily outrunning both her brothers (though the oldest won't admit it) and accomplishing everything that they challenge her to do.

She is a natural at mothering. She listens, she cares, she helps, and she loves deeply. And she works. When rooms have to be cleaned and toys picked up before lunch or dinner, she is the reason her brothers EVER get to eat.

It's a miracle in any situation to watch a child grow up, boys and girls alike. But watching this little ray of sunshine, surrounded by so many so different than she is, keep pushing her way up, fighting for her own place, developing qualities and characteristics so unique to her femininity, I recognize the wonder and beauty of her little spirit. I love my boys no less. But in Lucy, I recognize the power and grace of womanhood. She is strength, and gentleness, endurance and compassion.

And she's my angel.