Allegra,
This school year and last I have had the honor of dropping you off at school in the mornings. I am, each day, so impressed with the confidence and anticipation in your face and your stride as you walk from our car into the school doors, as though the whole place is yours and you are excited at the possibilities of whatever might happen that day. You are so delightful in the mornings. On very rare occasions you wake up and are a little bit grumpy , as we all do. For the most part, however, you wake up with a smile on your face and an upbeat energy about you that makes even MY grumpy mornings filled with joy. You are kind to your brother. You are buddies. Among my very favorite things is hearing the two of you giggling about a joke the two of you share. At the moment our whole house is in upheaval as our kitchen is being redone. You and Luke are eating meals on the cold basement floor, off of a crate that we pulled from the upstairs. I'm so pleased with how you are rolling with the punches. Not only is it okay with you that we are eating on the floor and have been exiled from much of our house, but your eyes tell me that there's something magical about it all for you, as if this is a new adventure that you are excited to be a part of. Instead of being annoyed that the playroom is filled with boxes so you can't play with your toys, you and Luke turned the boxes into a game, climbing on them, inventing a game that you invited me to be a part of, where I sit in the middle of the boxes with my eyes closed and try to grab you, pull you in and tickle you. You love to be wrestled and tickled and when I pull you in and try to be gentle with you you say "No Dad , REALLY tickle me." You love the closeness and I love it too. I also love hearing you laugh. You are such a great reminder that there is so much to be joyful about. In this, and many other ways, you show me what I want to be like.
Love,
Dad
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Sunday, October 15, 2017
Missing things
Allegra,
Today was an almost-miss day. We went to church, with plans to do some fall festival stuff later in the day. So I went shopping and Dad stayed home and played games with you and Luke, and ignored his phone like good Dads do when they're really playing with their kids. He missed the text that told him I'd wait at Target for you guys to meet me there, halfway to Simmon's Farm.
An hour later, I pulled in and dinner was ready but not eaten. So we ate (quickly-ish) and loaded into the car, and looked up the hours on the way. That was when we discovered that all farms within a reasonable distance were closing within 15 minutes. I felt pouty. You and Luke were pouty too.
But we took a detour to Home Depot, and bought some pretty amazing pumpkins anyway. You and Luke even picked out some kid-sized white gourds, and named them. Luke calls his 'Griffey' and yours is 'Pumpkinney'. With more time and money on our hands than we thought, we went to Scoops after that and got some ice cream cones before heading home. On the way, you reminded us that it was really lucky we were running late; otherwise, we wouldn't have Pumpkinney. Your read on the night was redemptive - a win, despite what we lost. It made me smile.
Tonight, trying to fall asleep, your mind was churning, though. How long do pumpkins last, you wanted to know. What happens when they get old? I told you that they get soft, like old fruit. They rot and then it's time to send them to the compost bin to feed our spring flowers. You started to cry, quietly, then louder. "How will we remember Pumpkinney, Mama?" you said, barely able to get the words out at the end. Sobs and hiccups. All this for a $1 gourd from Home Depot.
I almost tried to remind you of the facts. One dollar, girl. Home depot. There will be a handful of irreplaceable things you'll come across in your life, and Pumpkinney is not one of them.
But I have felt that thing too. The missing of a thing before it's even gone. The ache of loving a thing that you know can't stay. It's awful, really; sometimes so bad that you wish you never laid eyes on said thing-that-cannot-remain-with-you-unchanged.
I have a dozen things like that. You, as a newborn, was one of them. You were so tiny, so light and quiet and sleepy, and I knew that every day you would grow bigger and more independent, until eventually you wouldn't need me any more. I took a hundred pictures, literally. I knew your small days and my days of total control were limited. I was right about both of those things. But what is also true is that the watching of you grow into a big, strong, heartful girl has been worth every little bit of smallness I had to let go of.
There will be a lot of things like that. Good things, but things that, for one reason or another, won't stay. The very having of them can be painful. But I hope that you remember that the pain is worth it. Having a beautiful thing is always worth the pain that you feel when it leaves. The beautiful things change us, and the pain of their departure pales in comparison to the memories we have along with the better things that come to fill the spaces they left behind.
God doesn't leave us empty-handed, little one. He asks us to keep our hands open, so he can keep filling them again, and again. He will always fill your hands. Don't be afraid to keep them out there, ready to catch the next beautiful thing He sends your way. And that thing might come, and stay for a while, and go, too. It's okay. The things you really need - your inner strength, your wisdom and peace, God Himself - these things you can't lose no matter how hard you try. They are always right there inside you, always available if you need them.
You are seven, upstairs sleeping, and I am missing that you will never be just this age ever again. But I am so very proud of you, proud to know you and so certain that your unique blend of honesty and loyalty and strength and cleverness will be a gift to the world in ways neither of us can imagine today. So rest well, little one. I miss you, but I hold you with open hands.
And I will take pictures of Pumpkinney, so that you can remember her too.
Today was an almost-miss day. We went to church, with plans to do some fall festival stuff later in the day. So I went shopping and Dad stayed home and played games with you and Luke, and ignored his phone like good Dads do when they're really playing with their kids. He missed the text that told him I'd wait at Target for you guys to meet me there, halfway to Simmon's Farm.
An hour later, I pulled in and dinner was ready but not eaten. So we ate (quickly-ish) and loaded into the car, and looked up the hours on the way. That was when we discovered that all farms within a reasonable distance were closing within 15 minutes. I felt pouty. You and Luke were pouty too.
But we took a detour to Home Depot, and bought some pretty amazing pumpkins anyway. You and Luke even picked out some kid-sized white gourds, and named them. Luke calls his 'Griffey' and yours is 'Pumpkinney'. With more time and money on our hands than we thought, we went to Scoops after that and got some ice cream cones before heading home. On the way, you reminded us that it was really lucky we were running late; otherwise, we wouldn't have Pumpkinney. Your read on the night was redemptive - a win, despite what we lost. It made me smile.
Tonight, trying to fall asleep, your mind was churning, though. How long do pumpkins last, you wanted to know. What happens when they get old? I told you that they get soft, like old fruit. They rot and then it's time to send them to the compost bin to feed our spring flowers. You started to cry, quietly, then louder. "How will we remember Pumpkinney, Mama?" you said, barely able to get the words out at the end. Sobs and hiccups. All this for a $1 gourd from Home Depot.
I almost tried to remind you of the facts. One dollar, girl. Home depot. There will be a handful of irreplaceable things you'll come across in your life, and Pumpkinney is not one of them.
But I have felt that thing too. The missing of a thing before it's even gone. The ache of loving a thing that you know can't stay. It's awful, really; sometimes so bad that you wish you never laid eyes on said thing-that-cannot-remain-with-you-unchanged.
I have a dozen things like that. You, as a newborn, was one of them. You were so tiny, so light and quiet and sleepy, and I knew that every day you would grow bigger and more independent, until eventually you wouldn't need me any more. I took a hundred pictures, literally. I knew your small days and my days of total control were limited. I was right about both of those things. But what is also true is that the watching of you grow into a big, strong, heartful girl has been worth every little bit of smallness I had to let go of.
There will be a lot of things like that. Good things, but things that, for one reason or another, won't stay. The very having of them can be painful. But I hope that you remember that the pain is worth it. Having a beautiful thing is always worth the pain that you feel when it leaves. The beautiful things change us, and the pain of their departure pales in comparison to the memories we have along with the better things that come to fill the spaces they left behind.
God doesn't leave us empty-handed, little one. He asks us to keep our hands open, so he can keep filling them again, and again. He will always fill your hands. Don't be afraid to keep them out there, ready to catch the next beautiful thing He sends your way. And that thing might come, and stay for a while, and go, too. It's okay. The things you really need - your inner strength, your wisdom and peace, God Himself - these things you can't lose no matter how hard you try. They are always right there inside you, always available if you need them.
You are seven, upstairs sleeping, and I am missing that you will never be just this age ever again. But I am so very proud of you, proud to know you and so certain that your unique blend of honesty and loyalty and strength and cleverness will be a gift to the world in ways neither of us can imagine today. So rest well, little one. I miss you, but I hold you with open hands.
And I will take pictures of Pumpkinney, so that you can remember her too.
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