Natalie stood on a little step stool to reach the microphone. In her favorite blue-and-white flowered dress she told the attentive audience that when she was seven, she walked to the back of our church to a table filled with photos of children in need. Among a multitude of angelic faces beckoning her to pick them, Natalie chose the unsmiling Pricilla. Natalie remembered exactly what she said when she lifted up that picture of the pitiful-looking little girl and so did I. “I want to give her a reason to smile,” Natalie told the congregation.
Natalie explained how she wrote to Pricilla many times, hoping for a letter or a picture that would reveal the status of Pricilla’s smile. Soon one came. Natalie described the photo of Pricilla, her mother, and a social worker standing around a basket of fish that they were selling to pay for educational materials. The enclosed note said Natalie’s latest donation had helped buy those fish. “Most people would have looked at that picture and wouldn’t have seen a smile,” Natalie said. “But I did. Pricilla’s lips were curved up a little bit. She was smiling a little more than before,” she announced joyfully.
At the end of the service, fifteen families flocked to the table at the back to choose a child to sponsor. By the end of the week, all thirty children were adopted. Through Natalie’s gentle and compassionate ways, she motivated others — children and adults — to do something they perhaps wouldn’t have done. She encouraged them to make a difference, to change someone else’s life. This was the first confirmation I received that seeing and nurturing Natalie’s “weakness” enabled her to fulfill her potential. That was enough, but yet there was more. Confirmation 2 came a few weeks later and put my worries about Natalie’s sensitive heart to rest indefinitely.
CONFIRMATION 2
I was cleaning out Natalie’s backpack at the end of a chaotic week. After pulling out a half-eaten sandwich and an unnecessary number of mini hand sanitizers that smelled like cupcakes, I saw a crumpled piece of notebook paper. It was a speech she’d written and recited to her class before being voted class president in a mock election. It read:
My name is Natalie. Here are some reasons you should vote for me. I am hard working. I am very kind. I take care of the animals and the plants. I have self-control. I am very brave and honest. I am caring and a little curious. I am very smart and fun. I make a good leader. I care about other people. I am so exided to be one of the class presitents. Please vote for me.
I read it three times, and then I wept.
I cried for every little boy whose parents are told he is too rambunctious, too inquisitive, too loud.
I cried for every little girl whose parents are told her head is in the clouds, that she is a daydreamer and too much of a free spirit.
I cried for every little boy whose parents are told he is too small, too weak, and too timid to ever play the game.
I cried for every little girl whose parents are told she is too clumsy, too uncoordinated, too slow to ever succeed.
I cried for the mother who was told her child needed to be toughened up and for every year that mother waited for the moment she’d know that nurturing her daughter’s tender heart was the right thing to do.
The moment was now. And there was cause for celebration. Not because I had been “right.” Oh no — there was something much more miraculous to celebrate. In the act of noticing, protecting, and encouraging that overly sensitive heart at age three, my child’s God-given gift had blossomed. And far more important than the fact that the world could see and appreciate her gift was the fact that she could see it herself, among the other gifts she possessed.
I shuddered to think if I had tried to change her, mold her into something she was not. What would I have destroyed in my compassionate child? I was certain she would have never written these words, her purpose, her future in clear legible letters. Therein lay the flip side to an overly sensitive heart, and it was a beautiful sight to behold.
As I reflect back on that life-changing choice I made early on in Natalie’s life, I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we stop trying to change the perceived weaknesses we see in one another. What would happen if we choose to look a little deeper, take a new angle, or just wait and see? Perhaps by celebrating each other as is, there would be fewer feelings of isolation, failure, inadequacy, and shame. Perhaps there would be fewer school shootings, fewer suicides, less road rage, less self-harm, and less despair. Perhaps if we were to look into each other’s eyes and say, “I see you. I love you. You are exactly as God intended you to be,” there would be more peace in our hearts.
Let us remember that weaknesses have a flip side; they have the potential to become strengths. It only takes one person to take something others see as a negative to mold it into something that can change the status of a smile, the status of a life, and maybe even the status of a child’s future.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
Today I will step back and let my loved ones do things their own way . . . in their own time . . . with their own flair. Today I will step back and let them be who they are. And perhaps when I do, I will see something I thought needed changing doesn’t need changing at all. Perhaps I will see something courageously brave and beautiful that is worth protecting and nurturing. Perhaps I will finally see their true colors, and I will rejoice.
SEE WHAT IS GOOD TO GAIN PERSPECTIVE
Summer. Just the word alone brings peace to my bones. Summer. It’s morning sunshine, cool pools, warm oceans, bare feet, and extra scoops of ice cream. Summers are the much-needed exhale after nine months of school-year breath holding. But even the most wonderful things can lose their luster. There is a distinct difference between the beginning of the summer and the end of the summer. As wet towels, lost goggles, and long miles cramped in the family vehicle accumulate like sweat beads under your armpits, summer can quickly lose its initial glow.
That was precisely my state of mind when my daughters and I pulled into the parking lot of a local recreation center for an end-of-summer sports camp. “Nothing like being early,” I told my daughters, who were grumbling in the backseat about being the first ones to arrive.
Donned in neon-orange shirts, the camp counselors beckoned the girls with friendly smiles and waves. Unlike me, the counselors looked rested, caffeinated, and enthusiastic. It could have been the sunlight coupled with the one-hundred-percent humidity, but to my weary eyes, it appeared they had halos over their heads. Walking on air, I led my daughters to the check-in desk. After filling out the necessary paper work in record time, we said our good-byes. I was eager to break free and sit in complete silence for a few hours. At this point, being able to hear my own thoughts nearly sounded like a tropical getaway.
Once I arrived home, I worked on a few articles that were soon due. After that, I made an effort to clear a path through the house. When I did, I couldn’t help but notice my children’s trails — or as I like to call it, “Kid Evidence.” I noticed the way Avery had carefully arranged the shoes in her makeshift dollhouse . . . the way her ukulele pick was placed right where she could find it . . . the way she had gingerly set her glasses back on the second shelf when she came home from the movies. Among the disarray in Natalie’s room, there was a notebook tossed on the floor and open to a pretty decent drawing of her beloved cat, Banjo. The way she drew a hundred little hairs on his tail made me smile.
I hadn’t noticed these things earlier, because when the kids are underfoot, these tender, little details tend to disappear. But in my children’s absence, I could see them clearly. And these tender minutia made me feel happy and grateful.
After a day of writing to my heart’s content, I went to pick up my children, but I didn’t go right in. I wanted to see if they were having fun, making new friends, and getting along. I stood at the window of the gymnasium and watched for a few minutes. It was a free-play period with kids doing a variety of activities. I quickly spotted my daughters in their neon Nike shorts and sun-bleached strands of hair spilling from their ponytails. They were doing wall hand
stands with two other girls. Everyone was taking turns and helping to support wobbly legs if necessary. My girls were laughing, not bickering as they had been doing that very morning.
Suddenly my heart softened. Suddenly the long summer looked brighter. Suddenly I saw all that was good. And I knew where I was standing had a lot to do with it — this view from afar made all the difference. I dug into my purse until I found one of the small notebooks I keep handy in case writing inspiration comes unexpectedly. I wrote, “trails, mess, whining. But my days are better with you.”
Perspective
Suddenly I had it. Because sometimes you have to step away to get it.
A few hours later, this is what came of those scribbles in my little notebook . . .
PERSPECTIVE
Empty popsicle sticks sealed to the coffee table,
Cereal bag ripped open so the entire box spills out when I pour it,
Your tired face is not a pretty sight.
Bickering with your sister,
Forgetting to shut the car door,
Forgetting to flush,
Tags itch on the new shirt so you won’t wear it,
Someone’s been using my new lipstick again.
You can be stubborn, grouchy, messy, and exhausting.
But despite it all,
My days are better with you.
Because no one says my name quite like you.
No one else insists on a hug before I leave.
No one else has freckles in the exact same spot as me.
No one else’s lips feel quite like yours on my cheek.
No one else can make me laugh until I almost wet my pants.
No one else waves like you do when I’m spotted from afar.
Your flaws fall away in the light of your perfect love.
My child, my days are better with you.
That was the perspective I got the day my children went to camp — but that wasn’t the end. This shift in perspective continued, eventually covering larger, more sacred territory that included my own imperfections and strengths.
Shortly after camp concluded, the girls started school. On the very first day of school, I got that feeling. You know the feeling like you’re forgetting something? Well, I felt like I was forgetting something because I was forgetting something. I’d forgotten to put money in the lunch accounts on the first day. I’d forgotten to sprinkle Avery’s pillow with the glitter her teacher had given us for the night before the first day of school. I’d forgotten to sign up for the first swim meet. On top of all that forgetting, I had to be away for the night due to work.
In the motel room that night, I tossed and turned. I couldn’t sleep because of the negative commentary going on in my head. I knew such talk was taking me down a damaging and useless path, but my failings were getting the best of me. I couldn’t wait to get home the next day, vowing to do a better job of staying on top of things.
Natalie greeted me the minute I walked in the door. Although she was getting more and more independent every day, she still didn’t like me to miss her nightly tuck-in. She hugged me fiercely. “I slept with your special pillow last night,” she murmured into my chest.
I was quite surprised. “My pillow?” I inquired, unconvinced that among the array of pillows that lay on my bed, she knew I had a favorite.
“You know, the one that is super floppy in the middle — the one that Daddy tried to throw out because he said it was gross.”
I smiled. Yep, that was the one.
“It smells like you,” she divulged.
Sure enough, when I tucked her in that night my droopy pillow was placed where hers usually sits. Embarrassingly, I noticed my lifeless pillow had several drool stains and needed a good washing. But these details did not offend my daughter. She snuggled her face right into it and inhaled deeply. “Ahhhh . . . smells like Mama.”
In an instant, my inner bully, the one that spews negative comments about my parenting failings, was silenced. And my shift in perspective continued to expand to include myself.
PERSPECTIVE CONTINUED . . .
No seconds on ice cream,
Shoes required when we go grocery shopping,
Your mad face is not a pretty sight.
Insisting on cleaning my room,
Bad morning breath,
Bad car singing,
You call me by my sister’s name.
You have hairs on your chin.
Someone’s been organizing my closet again.
You can be forgetful, impatient, and overly concerned with cleanliness.
But despite it all,
My days are better with you.
Because no one says my name quite like you.
No one else insists on a hug before I leave.
No one else has freckles in the exact same spot as me.
No one else’s lips feel quite like yours on my cheek.
No one can make me laugh until I almost wet my pants.
No one else waves like you when I am spotted from afar.
Your flaws fall away in the light of your perfect love.
Mama, my days are better with you.
With an expanded perspective, I’ve come to this conclusion:
Let us not beat ourselves up if we have to be away — whether it is for work, pleasure, or just to sit with our own thoughts in the corner of Starbucks. Let us not feel guilty if we know we must put some space between ourselves and the ones we love the most. Why? Here are three reasons:
1. Because sometimes we need to step away to distinguish between what is truly important and what is trivial in the grand scheme of life.
2. Because sometimes we need to step away from the people we share our life with to see how beautiful they are.
3. Because sometimes the scent of a drool-stained pillow or the sight of a carefully placed stuffed animal in the absence of our loved one gives us what we need: Perspective — that moment when the flaws within yourself and the people you love fall away because your perfect love for each other overpower them all.
HANDS FREE LIFE DAILY DECLARATION
Today I will view the messy trails in my home as sacred evidence that living, loving, creating, and growing are going on here. If I choose to look at the clutter and disarray with a soft, open heart, I can see the quirks, hopes, talents, and dreams of my loved ones in these sacred trails. Although it is often imperfect, exhausting, messy, and monotonous, it is my life. And when I open my eyes, hands, and heart fully, what truly matters can outshine the mess.
SEE WHAT IS GOOD TO BECOME A NOTICER
Avery handed me her fall progress report. It displayed a steady stream of happy check marks in all the positive boxes. There was just one check mark standing dejectedly alone from all the others.
“How am I doing, Mom?” my child asked with a level of maturity that did not match the small disheveled person gazing up at me through smudged eyeglasses that teetered on the end of her nose.
I looked at her. Her flyaway hair and dirty knees indicated it had been a good day at school. I looked back at the progress report, then back to her again. Her face, lovely and round, still held traces of baby — unlike Natalie’s face, which had suddenly elongated into an adult-like oval without so much as a warning. Finally, once more, I glanced back to the progress report and the one lonely check mark.
Before I consciously realized I’d made a decision, my face broke into an encouraging smile. I gathered my child into my arms and pressed my lips against her silky, smooth cheek. Before I spoke, I briefly closed my eyes and offered up a silent prayer of gratitude; she had come so far in a year’s time. “You’re doing great. You’re doing just fine.” I whispered into her ear, my voice containing a mixture of emotion and happiness. I decided I would not say anything about the low check mark or the words written beside it. This was just something that didn’t need to be said right now . . . or perhaps ever.
But this child, with her bright blue eyes and sassy rose-rimmed glasses, misses nothing.
“
What does that say?” With her small pointer finger, she tapped the neatly printed words that flowed out from the check mark that sat apart from the others.
Inside my head, I read the words: Distracted in large groups. But I already knew this. I knew this before it was written on an official report card. This news was no surprise to me. You see, each day this child comes home with an astute observation:
“Max has a group of warts on his right knee. There are exactly nineteen. I counted them.”
“Miss Stevens got a new haircut. She got layers put in. It looks really pretty.”
“Miss Evans eats Greek yogurt every single day. I think her favorite flavor is peach because she brings that one a lot!”
“Sarah is a wonderful artist. She can draw butterflies that look like they could fly off the page!”
And outside the school walls, it’s no different.
“That waitress sure is working hard. We should leave a little extra money on the table.”
“That man is texting and driving. He is going to hurt himself or someone else.”
“Grandpa is slower than the rest of us. We should wait.”
“Look out the window, everybody! Look at the gorgeous view!”
Distracted or observant? Distracted or perceptive? Distracted or empathic? I choose observant . . . perceptive . . . empathic.
“What does it say, Mama?” My child was growing impatient to learn the meaning of those words she could not yet read herself.
My children know I will always give them truth, even when the truth can be difficult or uncomfortable to say or hear. So I read her teacher’s comment word for word: “Distracted in large groups.”
My daughter gave a tiny, uncertain smile and shyly put her hand to her mouth. “Oh yeah. I do look around a lot.”
Hands Free Life Page 11