Tomorrow will be filled with kids and adults masquerading as something they aren’t because it’s socially acceptable. For some, though, that’s a daily thing. They may not be wearing a Kylo Ren or Darth Vader mask, or parading around as a lioness or cute fairy, but they still hide who they are. Somewhere along the way, they were told they and their story were worthless. If this is you, I want you to hear me when I say this… YOU DO HAVE A STORY TO BE TOLD! You are worthy of being heard.
I’ve had some of my stories silenced. I didn’t like it. I hated it, actually. I’m not talking about my “Christian testimony” which is pretty boring for the most part, but parts of the narrative where I needed someone to hear me. I needed someone to see the pain, the hurt, the joy, the humor… To see me in my story and give it value. I’ve been brushed aside. I know how that feels. I realized the other day that when I’m not heard, or feel like i’m not being heard, i tend to be more selfish and spiteful toward myself and others and I don’t want that to be my story. I don’t want to see someone else’s story and either be jealous or hurt, or more realistically, both. It’s selfish and doesn’t really help me to actually listen. I have a hard time listening to hear instead of listening to respond. I’m working on it. And as a mom to a (6 day shy of) 4 year old, it’s definitely a spiritual discipline/ trial.
But I’m noticing such a beauty in her story. While currently her story and mine are intertwined because, let’s face it, I’m her mom that drags her a lot of places…. I’m able to let her out of my story enough to hear hers.
Friday was parent teacher conferences at her school. I was nervous. The last time I had any teacher conferences, i was a student being told to change my degree (in a nicer way than that sounds, I promise) and I seriously worried her teachers were going to say, “she’s not a nice fit for us right now…”
I didn’t need to worry.
“Your daughter was able to join in with two very tight girls and fit in perfectly,” they told me. “When she’s outside playing in the sandbox, the kids seem drawn in to play with her.” I mean, there are definitely areas of improvement for her, but these comments reminded me that my story and my daughter’s story are not the same.
Earlier today she asked for lotion. I told her to go get it. So she did. From the shelf. Above the dryer. She moved a toy to use for a stool to climb on to the dryer to get lotion. Give a kid a problem, and they’ll find a solution. She wanted a dinglehopper. I told her to figure out how to open the gate that keeps her brother out of the kitchen and get one. She did. Her story is one of creativity and inclusivity and observation. She’s writing her own story and it’s beautiful and different than mine. This makes this mama’s heart happy.
On Sunday when we celebrate her life, I’m going to remind myself of the story that God is writing for her is not my story and I’m going to pray that she continues to grow in ways that are pleasing to Him. For now, I can tell her story, but it won’t be forever. One day she’ll say… “Mom… This is my story. Let me tell it!”
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