I Just Said Goodbye

I send her off to college for the second time. The cacophony in my heart is distracting.

I already miss her.

I am glad she is going.

She is happy, so I am, too.

The summer flew by.

I’ll see her next week.

The house feels quiet and empty.

Really, really empty.

I watched a hawk the other day, training its offspring to fly.  They were high in the sky, but not as high as a grown hawk is capable of flying. The tiny bird flapped its developing wings mightily and was truly held aloft by sheer effort and wind current.  The parent did not interfere with the machinations of the young. Rather, it hovered just behind the tiny bird. Not close enough to help the bird fly, but not so far away that, should the young grow weary and tumble to the earth, the larger bird could not intervene.

That is us, my daughter and I.

She is flying. No, she is soaring. She rides the wind currents with ease and the flap of her strong wings bring power and independence. And takes her further from me.

I am there, but not too close. Neither am I far away. If she should feel herself falter, I am just a heartbeat away. I know it is best for her if I watch from a calculated distance. Her wings cannot gain strength if she does not exercise them. Her instincts will not become honed if I dictate decisions for her.

I say goodbye to her once again.

This time I will not accompany her to help her move in to the dorm, get her bearings, or navigate financial aid. She will drive away with a bulging vehicle, the earnings from her summer job(s), and a greater sense of what lies ahead. Of who she is. Of what she wants. Where she is going.

She is gone, but she is not alone. She does not see me, but I am there.

I am behind her,

watching her soar.

My Nest is Empty, My Plate is Full

For those not in the daily orbit of my life, I thought I would provide a quick recap (and I am fully aware that I may be the only one that will read these words – or care, for that matter).  But every once in awhile, there is the virtual visitor from Russia, or Germany, or other places I dream of visiting before my quasi hippie life is done.  For those guests, I will provide an update.

As the 2014-15 school year ground to a close, I found myself applying for a job in a much larger district and at some distance from my home.  Miraculously, I landed the job(s) and have been happily learning the ropes of my new split position.  I spend mornings at one school doing reading interventions, then (literally) drive across the railroad tracks to my second school, where I oversee the intervention process for that entire school.

I love my job(s).  Truly.

This fall my youngest Baby Bird flew the coup and is a freshman at the University of North Dakota, not far from the North Pole and Santa’s workshop.  Grand Forks is notoriously cold. 

I am not lonely.  Frankly, I wouldn’t be lonely in the middle of a remote forest.  I really am my own best friend.  Solitude is always welcome in my world.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love people and love time spent with people, but I also embrace the rare moments of complete solitude.  So facing the Empty Nest years has not been intimidating for me.  My children all live within easy driving distance of Rose Hill (our farm).  I see them quite often.  Those times are filled with feasting, laughter, and catching up on one another's lives.  I have, however, wondered as I approached this season of my life how I might go about staying busy.  Would I find good uses for my time with no tournaments or concerts to attend?

Near the end of September, I heard my principal casually mention that we had several students in our ranks that were residents of the local homeless shelter.  Homeless shelter?  Here?  As it turns out, the homeless shelter is literally just two blocks away from my school.  I had no idea. 

I couldn’t stop thinking about it.  I thought about it as I lay in bed at night, as I stood in the shower, and as I drove to my dream job(s).  I wanted to help.  I was sure there was something I could do.  What could I do?

What?

I am pretty sure the idea came to me in the shower (all the best ideas do).

I ran my idea by Mr. Dishy, who is the most logically inclined person I know.  He was encouraging and (almost) enthusiastic (if you know him you are laughing right now).  “Why stop there?” he encouraged me.  He was right.  There were other places that might welcome my services. 

And Project Armchair was born. 

Calls to the volunteer directors of both the hospital and the family homeless shelter resulted in enthusiastic responses.  They would love to have a certified teacher read aloud to their clients. 

My objectives are fairly simple:  give a child in crisis a moment’s reprieve from distressing circumstances through the power of quality children’s literature.  My desire as a reading teacher would be fulfilled in furthering my love of reading to a variety of children, in a variety of ages.  How much better if I gifted the book to that child so that literacy concepts are furthered even more?

And so…

Since the first week of October, I have been reading aloud once or twice a week to children in both locales.  I purchased several large boxes of Scholastic books (the absolute best deal in town) with my own funds and the blessing of my wonderful husband.  And in only two-and-a-half months, I personally have given away 50 books.

It gets better.

As I began to share my adventures with colleagues, many expressed the desire to join me in my mission.  I warned that the hospital volunteer process is not for the faint of heart – hours of lectures, immunizations, blood work, etc., then secretly crossed my fingers that they wouldn’t walk away, disheartened.  They didn’t.  Teachers are pretty spectacular, you know. 

And so, the first week of January will find nine other teachers beginning their own volunteer orientation journey, as they prepare to enter a new world of volunteerism. Volunteer Heroes, I call them.  There is no mandate to give of their precious, non-paid hours.  And yet they want to.  Many have young families and very busy lives.  I am humbled by their willingness.  Their lives will no doubt be changed, as mine has been.

Intersecting in the life of a child, either gravely ill or homeless, is a high honor.  Their young universe is fraught with uncertainty, disease, fear.  But when I begin a story, and I see the light come on behind feverish eyes, I know I have done something worthy.  A smile, a giggle, a look of surprised joy from an anxious mother, and the sun comes out and birds start singing.

I do not know where this journey will lead.  God does.

And so I thank Him, maker of all children, and big-hearted teachers, and gifted children’s book authors.  He will lead and I will follow.  I am so utterly grateful for an opportunity to touch lives, to find purpose even while the flap of my children’s wings disappears into their futures.  My life is full and beautiful and filled with purpose.  Blessed am I.

Please visit Project Armchair’s blog site and learn more about it:

http://projectarmchair.blogspot.com/

Leaving Baby

By the time she was three, she was the best mother in the world.  Her babies were well fed, lovingly rocked, tenderly kissed, and doted over on par with any caring mama anywhere. 

One fateful Sunday night when she was four, we drove the thirty miles home from an evening church service.  As we pulled into the yard, my little Hannah, the best preschool mother in the world, became distraught.  Through tears she confessed that she had forgotten her doll in the church nursery.  The price of gas and extra hour on the road meant nothing to her.  I comforted as best I could but she was inconsolable.  Finally, after hugs, kisses, and reassurances that we would retrieve her baby at our earliest convenience, she calmed down and we put her to bed.

The neglected doll in question, Butterfly, was the oldest of Hannah’s children and her go-to favorite.  There were the triplets, Tiffany, Biffany, and Spiffany, but Butterfly went everywhere with her mini mom.  (On a side note, I have requested that Hannah let me help name her future living children as I fear with her naming track record my future grandchildren will be in for some playground teasing.  But I digress…).

Later, when she was tucked safely into her princess castle bed and I thought she was asleep, I heard noise as I walked down the hall.  Following the source, I found my baby girl crying softly into her pillow, her tiny face streaked with tears.  “Oh, honey, what’s the matter?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.  “My baby must be so scared in the dark!” she wailed through sobs and hiccups.  I suppressed a smile, pulled her tiny frame into my arms, and kissed her tears away.

Butterfly was retrieved the next day and delivered to her very relieved mother.

In my mind’s eye, she is still busy with the daily cares of a four-year-old.  There are dolls to feed and shaggy, overfed dogs to pet and Bob the Builder to watch.  Her eyes are enormous black pools in a tiny face.  I see her in a hundred different mental snapshots. She slides off her chair at the end of meal and climbs onto my lap.  She tucks her soft little hand into mine, content to lean against me and listen to the chatter of brothers and parents.  She does not add to the conversation – she is far too shy for that.  Instead, she absorbs and melts into my frame.  She is quiet, shy, and even-tempered.  She is unadulterated joy to her father and I.

And now she is going away.

“How will you bear it?” well-meaning people ask.  “You’ll be a wreck when you drive away.”

I myself thought I would experience the same anguish as Little Hannah on that long ago Sunday night when my time came to leave her in the arms of a university. 

I find am not distraught. 

She is ready.

She chose the large university over the more intimate institution.  She was brave enough to seek an experience unlike her K-12 years in a tiny rural school.  She’s got moxie, I’ll give her that.  She is the first of the Dahl children to choose public over private college and the first to do her undergraduate years in state.  She is already blazing her own path and charting a course as unique as she.  I respect her for that.

I wanted her last hours at home to be filled with sweet, golden memories.  And so I called her away from her packing one day this week and had a tea party spread out for us.  Just like when she was tiny.  We sipped our French Vanilla tea and munched on sweet rolls and talked of ordinary things.  But as we laughed and jabbered about minutia, my heart was memorizing that moment in our sun-drenched kitchen.   I have been through this three times before. I know that in many ways, our life will be forever altered; our relationship redefined.

I feel her soul pulling away.  She no longer needs us as she used to.  A part of me wishes she did.  Then I am reminded that we raised her for this.  We want her to become strong and independent.  I pray we have given her the foundation to weather the next years capably and emerge on the other end triumphant. 

I will pray for her everyday.  Every.single.day.  I will awake with her on my subconscious mind and will fall asleep with a quiet whisper sent heavenward.  She is not alone, although some days will feel that way to her. 

She is loved, yes.  But just as importantly, we entrust this child, our youngest child and only daughter, into the Father’s care, to watch over her, send people into her life that will make her path brighter, and morph into the adult we always believed she would become.

And so…

When her dad and I crawl into bed on her first night away, and I am tempted to leak desperate tears into my pillow, distraught that my baby is scared without my presence, I hope I will remember that she is strong.  She is capable.  It is her time.  She is ready.

Instead of tears, I will splash words of blessing over her head and into her heart, where I hope they will seep deep into her soul and add joy to her journey.    She is not alone, nor am I.  God will be faithful. 

Dear Creator of all Life, who entrusted this child into our care, gather my precious lamb into your Shepherd’s arms and hold her close to your heart (Isaiah 40:11).  Let the Light of Truth be her guide and give her a heart of discernment to make wise choices that bring Life and Light into her future. 

And on the days when I most miss her, help me to remember that you love her even more that I do.  Amen.

Heartbeat of the Prairie

Her name was Beulah.  She was quite a gal.  Completely admirable.  She was related to me through marriage (my grandfather and her husband were brothers) and lived not all that far from the Dahl spread. 

On a Sunday I called her caregiver and asked if we might stop by to see her after church.  “Of course!” she replies.  I hang up.  The phone rings again.   It is her caregiver.  “Honestly, I think you had better come right away.”  We went – John, Hannah, and myself.  We held Beulah’s hand, hugged her daughters, read precious Scriptures of promise in her ear, and sang her favorite songs to her.  She showed no response except brown eyes that followed our every move.  She heard.  She absorbed the precious Word of God.  She sang with us in the places of her soul inaccessible to the rest of us.

I came the next day by myself, and the next day too.  I read. I held. I sang. I hugged.  On the third night, with her loving, beautiful daughters buoying her up to the heavenlies, her soul left the broken shell that had once been a strong body, full of capabilities and keen intelligence.  No more suffering.  No more waiting for her ultimate freedom.

We filed into the tiny prairie church; her children, and grandchildren, and all of the greats.  Her nieces and nephews and their children.  Her former students and their children.  The townspeople who had known her forever. 

We sang, and read, and hugged.  We celebrated the extraordinariness of Beulah Long. 

Oh my.  I so hope my final earthly celebration is as joyful and inspiring!  Beulah made me want to accomplish a thousand things before my capable body is a broken shell.  I could not help but smile when I looked at the program.  Alongside the order of service was Beulah’s favorite dinner roll recipe.  She was famously hospitable.  I loved that about her.  I loved that her family represented that with a recipe.

Later, we drove the almost comically short funeral procession to the cemetery for the final goodbye.  The day was warm and the prairie breeze gentle.  I stood in the center of that immaculate cemetery, surrounded by ancestors I never really knew – my great uncle, my great-grandparents.  Standing there under the great bowl of blue sky I felt the connection to those ancient lives.  Although strangers, they helped form me.  Laid out a path for me by the choices they made, the children they raised, and the Lord that they served.  I am who I am in part because they lived.  They were not trying to shape the life of a far future daughter named Vonda.  But they did, nonetheless.

I looked at my husband and smiled.  As a gust of wind caught my hair and swirled it like a deeply exhaled breath, he asked softly, “Do you hear it?” 

I waited for more. 

It came. 

“Do you hear the heartbeat of the prairie?  The ebb and flow of life and death?”  I did not answer but instead listened.  I heard the meadowlark warble a song to its mate.  I heard the swish of the prairie grasses beyond the fenced boundaries of the cemetery.  I heard the quiet whispers of Beulah’s grieving family and the whimpered cries of her great grandbabies.  I heard the chatter of toddlers chasing butterflies, unaware that they should feel anything but utter joy on such a gloriously beautiful day. 

I did hear it.  I did.  I heard the pulse of the land – this place of endless horizon and azure skies.  I heard the heart of the prairie soil that both grows food in abundance and receives her sons and daughters back into the earth when their journey is done.

I knew in that moment – that quiet hushed moment - that Her heart beats within me as well.  This land, both breathtakingly beautiful and cruelly harsh at times, is etched on my soul.  My grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be who they are because I made the choices I did, served my Creator, and raised the children who will be their future parents. 

And someday…

Under an endless horizon and azure sky…

The Prairie will enfold me in her rich, dark soil and I will lie with my ancestors.  The ebb and flow will continue. 

Until that day, I will add my own unique story to her chronicles. 

The Fork in My Road

My home away from home for four-and-a-half years

I remember that day so well.  Waking early, driving with a stupid grin on my forty-seven-year-old face, walking into the classroom I had spent weeks preparing, and welcoming my very first group of first graders.  I loved teaching from the first breath of that first day.

I still do. 

I invited you to follow my journey on that day, and some of you have.  I have run into you in some pretty unlikely places.  Thank you for rooting for me – this middle-aged mom who went back to school and began her career later than most.

My journey has now taken an interesting twist and I think it is time to make it official.

When I began this blog on that first day, I shared that “beginning my career at the end of my life” happened because I chose to set aside professional aspirations in order to give the Motherhood thing my undivided attention. 

In keeping with that all-or-nothing philosophy, I sought my first position in the same district as my baby girl, Hannah Rose.  It has been precious to be close to her.  Seeing her kissed-by-the-morning face walk into my room, mug in hand, asking for coffee, brightened my mornings.   Having her pop in during a lull in her day to see the Darlings and have them rush to her with cries of joy and arms open wide for hugs always brought a smile.  Or the days she came rushing in with a permission slip declaring that it needed to be signed and “turned in today!” made me laugh and shake my head in feigned frustration.  I have cherished these years close to her.

Baby Girl graduated a few weeks ago and my nest will be empty come fall.  Time to rethink my career path.

To that end, I have secured a new job in a new district in a new city.  I am happy to announce that I will be teaching in Mandan, ND – a city about 40 minutes from the Dahl spread.  It is a much larger district and a fabulous opportunity to me to grow professionally.  My new duties will be split between two elementary schools and a bit different from classroom teaching.  I will be focused now on reading interventions.  My official titles are Title I Reading Specialist and Instructional Coach.

I am crazy-excited!

Will I miss the Darlings?  Oh my, yes.  Their genuine honesty and witticisms will forever be a part of my story-telling repertoire.  Like first love, one never forgets their first years of teaching, I am guessing. 

I will miss my coworkers as well, from “Red” the custodian to the office manager, Becky B. and all my fellow teachers.  These are my neighbors and Wing is my community.  I leave with a tinge of sadness.  But I know that I am about to meet equally entertaining and priceless children and will get to know a fresh group of wonderful coworkers.  I am filled with anticipation for this next chapter.

All of the above is Part A of my fork in the road. Part B is pretty cool too.  I begin my PhD in a couple of weeks.  Yes, I am about to begin another degree.  Why, Vonda?  Why?  I can hardly believe they accepted me into the cohort.  Maybe I can fudge it for a semester or two until they catch wind of how ill-equipped I am for such a stringent program.  But until the jig is up, I will tally ho and sally forth into the world of academia yet again.  My wonderful husband is fully on board too and incredibly supportive (wow, I love that man).  Life is so deliciously intriguing and full of surprises.

The Dishy Mr. Dahl and I were driving across the state recently.  The day was near perfect.  After a wet May, the prairie was alive and green.  Atop the gently rolling hills sat a serene sky of the bluest blue imaginable.  Fluffy clouds dotted the upside-down blue bowl.  As the cottony clouds floated over the prairie, they cast small shadows that came and went like ghostly apparitions. 

This is how my heart will remember Wing.  My first teaching job experience was near perfect.  I learned a tremendous amount about education, loving children, and playing a minor role in keeping the heart of the community beating.  The few brushes with unpleasantness (so little of it, really, it barely deserves mention), are represented by the swift shadows that pass briefly over the Grass Sea.  Even the shadows and momentarily concealed sun contribute to the breathtaking beauty of the total scene.  Everywhere I look in the memories of my heart, I see God’s hand at work and the pastoral beauty is pleasant and warm on my back.  I leave not discontentedly nor anxiously, but rather filled with fondness for the community, teachers, and the precious children I leave behind.  

I am also filled with anticipation for what the next bend in my road will bring. 

I believe more than ever that my years of raising the Dahl brood were not at all wasted.  Not personally and certainly not professionally.  I hope my life can be an example to those young mothers who are torn between daycare and financial sacrifice.  Hear me loud and clear, young mother…. your time with those babies is but a breath.  You will blink and they will be moving into the dorm. 

IT GOES SO SWIFTLY…

Hold them while you can and teach them what you want them to know.  There are many fine places of childcare, but NO ONE will love them like you do.  They will learn the values of someone.  Let them be your values.  Live your life with no regrets.  I have none.  I would rather begin my career at the end of my life than wish I had done things differently.  It is not for everyone, but maybe it is for you.  Follow your heart.

It is time for me to follow mine yet again.

And so…

I say goodbye to my first school, my first love. 

Thank you, Wing Public School, for letting me play a part in your continued history and for letting me share in your journey. 

I am forever grateful.

An Open Letter to Sandy

Dr. Ryan Dahl

I am at this moment on a road trip headed to Colorado.  Tomorrow my son, Ryan, will become Dr. Ryan Dahl.  I am filled with anticipation for the weekend of celebration ahead.  It has been a long, arduous journey for him.  Medical school is not for the faint of heart.  Tenacity is a prerequisite and, thankfully, Ryan possessed enough to see him through.

His journey began years ago.  I will rewind the tape to May of 2007.  The gym in Wing, North Dakota, is filled with proud families and loyal community members.  This tiny prairie school still honors eighth grade graduates, for goodness sakes’.  Graduation is a big deal in Wing.

The cavernous Quonset is decorated with metallic ribbon and enough balloons to keep a pontoon afloat.  The high school band, minus the seniors and junior marshals, does its best to do justice to Pomp and Circumstance.  The Class of 2007 takes their place on the stage and sits down on the carefully placed folding chairs.  You may be wondering that the entire graduating class can fit on the stage.  Oh shucks, we could fit the entire high school up there.  There were only four graduates in the class of 2007.  All males, (which made for an interesting prom).

My boy, Ryan, is among them.  Ryan comes second in the Dahl Children lineup of four total.  He has known for several years that he wanted to be a dentist.  His uncle Jason had something to do with that, I believe.  Jason is a dentist and Ryan thought it would not be a bad way to take his contributing place in society. 

On that long ago night in May, he is enrolled at a private university south of Chicago, with plans to pursue a degree in biology.  John and I are hopeful he will be able to realize his goals.  We know he has many years of study ahead of him and will need to shine academically in order to gain acceptance into dental school. 

I spotted you when you walked into the gymnasium and on some mental level, wondered at your presence.  Although you had been a member of that community for quite some time, you had since moved away.  It was nice to see your sweet face, regardless.

Not far into the ceremony you stood and made your way to the stage.  Now I was actively curious.  You stood at the podium briefly, and then broke.  Without a word, you motioned your friend, who had walked in with you, to come and stand by your side. 

The gymnasium, which echoes at the slightest of sounds, is utterly silent, as if every person in that room is holding their breath. For what, we are not sure.  In quivery voice, fighting for control, you lay out your reason for being there.

With the single word, “Sarah,” we know we are about to be transported to a moment in time eight years earlier, a moment that changed everything; for you, for us, for our community.  In one horrific moment your beloved husband and daughter were ushered into eternity, and your precious son, the sole survivor of that devastating car accident, was placed on a long path of physical recovery.

You shared through your tears that night that shortly after that awful day, you chose to invest funds into an account that would be designated for Sarah’s classmates, to be handed to them upon their high school graduation.  You told no one of your plans.  Your motives were simple.  You wanted to honor your daughter in a meaningful way.  Your gift and careful investment had resulted in a significant amount to be used for furthering the education of her classmates as a way of remembering her life and legacy.

As the enormity of your extraordinary generosity sank in, I gasped.  I felt salty tears running down my face.  Not just for the help it would give my son, or for the unexpected generosity, but also because the years had been peeled back and a sunshiny little angel was running through my memories once again.  Sarah lived everyday of her life joyfully and exuberantly.  I will never forget her cartwheel on the basketball court after draining a two-pointer.  That was Sarah.  Happiness spilled out of her like a bubbling fountain.  Dear, sweet, angel-faced Sarah.

I write this today, Sandy, because I want you to know that my family remembers.  We remember your gift and its intended purpose.  We remember your mother’s love.  And we remember Sarah.

And so, as my boy accepts his diploma and conferred degree, I thank you, mother to mother.  I cannot know the depths of your painful journey.  But I do know that out of your sorrow you did an amazing thing.  You told Sarah’s classmates two things; you told them that you loved your daughter deeply.  You also told those young men on that night in May that you believed in them.  Believed they might create lives of happiness and fulfillment and accomplish the things Sarah never would.  Eight years later they are fine young men.  You helped them accomplish that.

We will never forget your kindness, your generosity and your selflessness.  Thank you, Sandy, for playing a part in helping Ryan realize his goal.  I am utterly and eternally grateful.  May God richly bless your life and path always and pour sunshine into that empty spot in your heart. 

You will always occupy a warm spot in mine.

When This Box is Full...

One of my absolutely favorite first grade activities every year is reading the book, “When This Box is Full,” by Patricia Lillie.  It is a simple book, and not terribly remarkable, as children’s literature goes.  But there is something touching about the young girl that marks the months and seasons with simple gifts added to her empty box. 

I read the text during our first week of school in the fall, hand out unadorned paper mache boxes with lids, let the students paint up a storm, then tuck them away.  Each month we add something to our boxes that remind us of that particular month.  In August, bright yellow wooden school bus cutouts.  In January, sparkling snowflakes.  In April, our book reading chart with the scene of children under an enormous umbrella.  These we carefully fold (or shove, as the case may be) into our remembrance box until the last week of school when we add our last item, a brilliant picture of a Painted Lady butterfly, as a reminder of our own adopted caterpillars. 

My Rosie, youngest of four and the only girl in the bunch, graduates from high school in forty-seven hours.  She will take her place on the stage with all six of her classmates (no, that is not a typo).  She will sit there on that stage adorned with metallic ribbon and helium balloons, deliver her Valedictory speech, and end her high school career.    

Though those in the audience will not be able to see it, she will have her own remembrance box sitting on her lap, stuffed with her own memories.  The contents of her box will strain at the seams, spilling bits of history from under the lid and down the sides, the memories of thirteen years of schooling in the same prairie school building.   

Most of her memories are pleasant.  She has enjoyed sweet friendships and has excelled in her studies and extracurricular activities. 

Some of her memories are not really memories at all, but rather the white noise of life.  The steady ticking of The Clock that ceaselessly marks time jumbles days, weeks, and months into a hazy film of sameness that has few distinctive marks.  She does not yet know that those will be some of the sweetest days of her life.  Unremarkable living means that life is pleasant, even when a little boring. 

Some of the scraps peeking from under the lid are painful to look at.  Heartaches and costly mistakes must take their rightful place in the box, as they do for all of us.  They are a part of her journey, a part of the formation of Hannah.  The pieces of her that have emerged as beautiful are partly due to those painful experiences.  Trying times either embitter a soul or release its beauty.  I am rapturously happy that Hannah’s is sweet and pure.  Only those closest to her can see the nearly imperceptible scars of difficult times hidden beneath a spirit of beauty.  Scars that tell me she is ready for a great big world.

At the end of my children’s book, the little girl takes her box filled with bits of lace, a robin’s feather, a foil heart, and a snowman’s scarf, and hands them to her friend.  Her treasures, so carefully guarded for an entire year, are made complete and dazzling by sharing them with someone she loves.

I think maybe Hannah has done the same.  Her treasures; her memories, her joys, sorrows, and successes are hers alone to savor.  But this child of my heart who came to us at the end of our parenting and who has filled our gradually quieted home with joy, has allowed me to partake in the gathering of the contents of her box.  It makes me catch my breath a little to hand back her box and say, “I love it all.  Thank you for sharing it with me.” 

In just hours, our youngest child will be done with childish things.  The concerts and track meets and class projects will take their place in her box, only to be exposed to light occasionally in the future as she reminisces, then puts the lid back on and places the box back on the dark shelf.

I love her so much. 

I am proud, yes.  But deeper and more satisfying yet is the knowledge that she has chosen wisely the things to place in her box.  They are things of purity and beauty. 

As I watch her accept her diploma and smile with satisfaction, I will smile too.  I am less sad that she is leaving than I am filled with joy that her box is filled with good things. 

Blessed is she.

Blessed am I.