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.