Yesterday these hands were not rolling clay. One was clutching a piece of paper while the index finger of another tracked each written word as she read them over and over again.
Yesterday these hands were not rolling clay. They were flailing about as the contents of her heart spilled out from her lips and her soul let go of the pain.
Yesterday these hands were not rolling clay. They were wrapped tightly around my neck as my arms enveloped her and my shoulders absorbed her sobs.
Yesterday these hands were not rolling clay. They were within mine as I held her gaze and spoke every written word of the note to her until she remembered and believed.
I often write notes for my daughters. Something I have done since they could barely walk, I try to regularly speak life into them through this little tradition. At times it is a quick phrase on a note in their lunches, at times it is a “¡Te amo!” on a whiteboard in a locker at school, and at times it is a lengthy, intentional act that is executed in response to a tugging in my own heart.
This note was of the latter type.
When I wrote it, I could foresee her need for it. Despite being unable to predict precisely when or why she would need them, I knew that those words would be food for her soul.
I didn’t realize how famished she was until I saw the deep creases in the paper yesterday as she clutched it.
It was obvious that she had folded and unfolded it many times, persistently seeking truth to feed her soul.
Praise God!
Praise God for her. Praise God for giving me each word that is written on that square piece of paper. Praise God for giving her such wisdom at such a tender age, that she would return to the truth over and over again because she knows that is the only way to combat lies. Praise God!
While I could chalk this experience up to a manifestation of major life changes or normalcy for a young school-aged girl, I won’t. I can’t.
Because rarely does there exist an experience that does not contain an underlying message.
Most times when lies are swirling in my own mind, I want to skip right to the crying, the flailing of hands (and arms, if I’m being honest), and the spillage of buried pain. Most times my first instinct is not to grab love notes penned by Someone who knows me better than I know myself, who doesn’t want me to forget who I am. Most times I don’t want to allow myself to be held nor to hear the truth spoken to me over and over again until I believe it.
God knows that. He knows that about me, He knows that about you, and He has an answer for it:
Be like little children.
Think as they think, see the world as they see it, live with abandon as they live, laugh as often as they laugh, love unconditionally as they love.
And, in this case:
Open the love note God wrote you, read it over and over again, pour your heart out to Him, be held, be still, and listen.
Listen well. Because if it weren’t for the muting of all of the noise in our world, I doubt that I would have heard the underlying message those fifteen minutes had for me.