The Winding Path

I awoke this morning to the excitement of my seventh first day of school as an educator. Seven late summers of frantic preparation. Seven rounds of teacher in-service. Seven times of being joyfully reunited with colleagues as if we hadn’t seen each other in decades. Seven glimpses of fresh young faces that are happy or scared or just plain lost. Seven opportunities to ooh and ahhh over new clothes and unicorn backpacks and shoes that light up like the Vegas strip. Seven years witnessing Kindergartners trying not to cry (and failing). And the parents of said Kindergartners also trying to hold it together with about the same results.

I love it all.

I love the hum of energy in the air. I love the way classrooms don’t yet smell like sweaty prepubescent boys fresh from PE or the sun-soaked playground. I love the shiny, waxed hallway floors. I love the Pinterest-driven classroom themes. I love the sweet hugs from returning students and the optimism that exudes from the same teachers that were on the ragged edge of burnout just twelve short weeks ago.

These are the threads that are just beginning to be woven into the tapestry of a new school year. Some of that fabric will be beautiful and bring joy. Some will break our hearts. But it will be our collective story and we will be forever intertwined because of it.

I am amazed at where this teaching journey has taken me in those seven years. From classroom teacher to remediation interventionist/instructional strategist, and now this Fall my new role as our district’s Literacy Coordinator, overseeing a federal grant that will boost literacy in our community from birth to grade 12. I am very, very (very, very, very, very, very) excited about this stunning opportunity to impact literacy on a large scale. Excited (and a little terrified).

I cannot fail to mention the love of my teaching heart, Project Armchair. Thirty volunteers and 2,000+ books donated and given away to children in crisis in the last three years. It continually amazes and humbles me. Such an unexpected and beautiful part of my journey!

Each switchback in my career has been the stepping stone for the next thing. Each major decision an open door to an unknown hallway. When I entered the college classroom again in my late forties with the hair-brained idea of starting a new career in teaching, I had no idea where it would all lead. But God did, and I am grateful. Grateful to have a purpose for this stage of my life. Grateful to have intersected with so many truly wonderful and warm people along the way. Grateful for a life partner that encourages hair-brained ideas (I love you, sweetheart!)

May this year be the most beautiful tapestry yet.

Paper Diamonds

If you know me, you know that my heart pumps printer’s ink. I am all about literacy, both in my professional and in my personal life. Being the book nerd that I am, my job as a literacy coach is like getting up and going to the carnival every day. I love what I do. Every day is fun. Every day. And today I loved it even more.

My work in a high-poverty elementary school brings its own set of challenges. Many of our kids have tough lives outside of school. Housing instability, food insecurities, imprisoned parents, and the chronic stress that goes with poverty all take their toll on the kids I pass in the hall every day. You can see it. You can feel it in the acting-out behaviors that send a steady stream to the door of the principal’s office. I look at those faces and wonder what I can do. Wonder how I can help. So much need…

My looming dissertation will orbit around (wait for it….) literacy, so about a year ago I asked our principal if we could try something at our school. I have these theories about literacy and the ability of a really good book to lower stress levels, inspire the hopeless, model determination and grit through a well-crafted story line, and build community among our children. It’s all that printer’s ink flowing in my veins. It makes me incredibly optimistic and annoyingly passionate. There’s a pretty impressive mountain of research to back most of those ideas, too.

And so…

… shortly after Christmas break, a cadre of fellow teachers and I hung mysterious posters around the hallways, built suspense to the point of some really funny theories being tossed around, and launched our first ever, after-school Book Club.

Our objectives were simple. Let’s get into small groups and talk about the books we love. We hoped it would fan the flames of literacy-love for those students already active readers (those that read for pleasure outside of school hours). And maybe, just maybe, we might pull a kid or two into the fold that was sitting on the fence. We also wanted to get books into the hands or our club members. Books to keep with no library due dates. Books they can read in bed while eating a PBJ sandwich. Books that will become a part of the fabric of their lives.

We appealed to our district’s philanthropic foundation about funding our venture. They were immediately on board. They asked if we had asked for enough and offered us more! We took it.

My principal warned me that anything held after school that required parent transportation might be an issue. Holy cow, he was right. I won’t go into details, but suffice it to say my team and I spent some long hours trying figure out how to get a kid or two home.

We had zero idea if there would be much interest or participation. We sent the permission letters home and waited. We were shocked when a full third of our student population returned with signed, green permission slips!

For ten weeks now we have met on Tuesdays, provided simple snacks, divided into (mostly) manageable groups, and talked about books. We didn’t require them to read specific books (choice is power), but let them bring the books they were most interested in. We teachers facilitating groups did the same. It always brought a smile to my face when one of the kids would share about their book-of-the-week and another kid in the group would pipe up, “I want to read that!” I keep a pretty substantial library in my office of my personal children's literature and I have had a steady stream of kids in and out my doors to borrow the books I mentioned during weekly club meetings.

I.absolutely.LOVE.that.

Tonight was our last club meeting for the year. Two weeks ago we gave out Scholastic fliers and let each member choose one book to order. Honestly, some of these kids have probably never been able to order from a Scholastic flyer. They were really excited. We surprised the members with a pizza party tonight, and gave out their chosen books. It was truly a celebration. The mood was festive and full of anticipation. The joy and laughter was infectious. I looked around at the library filled with kids and knew we had hit every one of our objectives. And a few we hadn’t dared to hope for.

There was the student who declared in the beginning he didn’t want to come but his mom made him. Two weeks ago he brought not one, but TWO books to share and nearly exploded waiting for his turn. There was the student who confessed that he is nervous about middle school next year and asked hopefully, “Do you think they’ll have a book club, Mrs. Dahl?”

Books change lives. I have never doubted that. Before we dismissed for the night, I asked the group if anyone wanted to share something they had enjoyed about book club. Hands went up all over the room. They liked having other people to talk to about books. They liked spending time with teachers outside of school hours. They liked being with their friends. (One kid whispered to me conspiratorially, “I just came for the snacks.” I’m cool with that). They liked hearing about other books. Every time I tried to shut down the comments, a frantic face would plead to be heard.

Most touching to me personally were the gifts handed me by these precious children. Wait. You brought me gifts?!? A juice box hoarded from a second-grader’s snack. A stunningly colored, intricately-cut, head from two fifth-grade girls. And an oddly-shaped, folded paper. I started to unfold it thinking there was a message inside. “No, Mrs. Dahl!” The fourth-grade boy stopped me. “There’s nothing inside.” He looked suddenly unsure of himself. “It’s…a diamond,” he finished softly. And so it was. These children have so little. They brought their tokens of appreciation for something that had apparently meant something to them.

I have high dreams for these kids. Maybe, just maybe, a book club will play a small part in helping them find theirs.

The Gift of Christmas

Her name is *Eva. Her frame is slight, her hair generally tangled chaos (I have literally pulled debris from it on more than one occasion), and her untied laces drag behind her, like the wake of a rowboat.

Her world outside of the classroom matches her hair. It is full of upheaval, chaos, uncertainty, and crushing disappointment. The burden of her day-to-day realities are a boulder she staggers under daily.

I met Eva in my role as a Title reading interventionist. She and I meet daily to work on reading strategies to strengthen her fledgling skills. More days than not, her mind and heart are busy trying to process the life waiting for her at the end of the day. She cares little for my supports and strategies. It is not unusual for her to lay her head on my work table and sob great tears of frustration. Frustration because she cannot decode the words in my book. Frustration that I want her to. Frustration that life is hard. I would love for her to read at a level of proficiency, but more than that, I would love for her to love life.

I had small Christmas gifts ready for each of my intervention students, this day. Small baubles and inexpensive items I purchased at the school book fair a few weeks ago. Small gifts mean a lot to these students. They have so little.

I allowed Eva to pick her items from an array and she carefully considered which to claim as her own. She finally chose her items and her face broke into a heartwarming grin. We exited my office and headed down the hall toward her classroom.

Impulsively (and uncharacteristically), she grabbed my hand and pulled me forward. I tried not to register my surprise and allowed her to steer me toward her backpack in the hallway, where I had indicated she should deposit her gift before reentering her classroom.

She dropped her items into her dirty pink backpack and fished around in the bottom for a few moments. Finally, she brought her hand up close to my face, holding a grimy coin with both hands, as if she were afraid she would drop it. “I have a quarter,” she announced quietly. A pause. “You can have it.”

I realized what she was doing. I had given her a gift. She wanted to reciprocate. She had one item on her person she felt would suffice. A coin dulled by layers of dirt. I had a swift mental argument about whether I should accept it.

“Oh, sweetheart,” I said, pulling her close, as my heart began dripping like hot wax. “That is so sweet, and I am so grateful, but why don’t you keep it? You might need it for something. But, THANK YOU! That means so much to me.”

She nodded, relieved. She carefully placed the precious coin back into her backpack, then stood, unsure what to do next. Suddenly, I felt thin arms wrap around my waist, and found myself looking down at the top of that chaotic hair. I wrapped my arms around her and whispered in her ear, “Merry Christmas, Eva.”

Without uttering a word, her arms dropped. The moment had passed. She did not look at me again. She grabbed the door to her classroom and entered, without looking back. The heavy door shut behind her and I stood, transfixed by what had just transpired. It felt a little miraculous, somehow.

This is essence of Christmas, is it not?

A gift offered to mankind. God gave the most priceless gift he had on that first Christmas, two thousand years ago. He gave his only son, Jesus. Heaven came to earth in the form of a baby.

I will forever have a mental picture of that little face, with the quarter held up in front it. Eyes searching mine. An offering of all she had, held out to me with love and affection. It makes my eyes leak a little to think of it.

I see God the same way. Standing there, holding out a gift of salvation and eternal life, through the gift of his Son, Jesus. Looking at me with absolute love. A love I have not earned. I do not deserve. Incomprehensible Love.

God, please bless my little friend, Eva. Grant her a Christmas of peace and HOPE. Let her feel your love the way I felt hers today.

Merry Christmas, Eva…

_{*Not her real name}

What Do You Do with an Idea?

This poor blog has been sorely neglected by me.  Like a forgotten toy in a child’s bedroom, this brainchild of mine has been tucked into a dusty corner, out of view and out of mind.  I thought with a new school year imminent, perhaps I should update my digital diary.

I’ll begin with my job.  I am entering my second year in a dual position within the Mandan district. Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely sure last year at this time what the specifics of what “Instructional Strategist” would entail.  I had a pretty good idea of what the other half of my duties meant.  I at least had some background with Title I services. As it turned out, I had a lot to learn about both.  Still do.  I won’t bore you, dear reader, with minute details.  I will just summarize with my overall experiences and impressions.

I spend every morning at Mary Stark Elementary school.  I work with a Title I team of two other interventionists that, I must say, have been incredibly patient and helpful as I muddled my way through the first months of school.  I have fallen head over heels for those ladies.  It’s pretty wonderful to wake up each work day and eagerly look forward to getting to work, interacting with people I genuinely like, and growing professionally.

And the children of Mary Stark… Oh, those precious children.  Our students are among the poorest in the twin-city region.  The needs are high, both physically and academically.  Class size is small here. This allows more intense, direct interaction between student and teacher. I spend my mornings doing small-group instruction with the lowest performers, and one-on-one direct interventions.

At my lunch break, I head across the bridge to the other side of the tracks – both a figurative and literal analogy. I serve in a quasi-administrative role as Instructional Strategist for Roosevelt Elementary. My job is to ensure that all Title intervention services are administered with fidelity, that all clients with needs are services, that teachers and interventionists are on the same page, and that there is the necessary assessment and other data to drive and support decision-making.

I feel right at home there, as well.  Everyone is so darn nice! I am thankful that my new job has not deprived me of interacting with children.  How bereft I would be!  I still teach.  I just am no longer responsible for lesson plans or grades.  All the fun with less paperwork.  I can’t say that I miss those things, which is a little surprising to me. Or not.

So that’s the 4-1-1 on the job front.

This last year I also became a student (again). This time I am shooting for the academic stars – a PhD in Teaching and Learning, through the University of North Dakota.  It’s challenging.  Oh, who am I kidding? It’s downright H-A-R-D! I have asked myself at least a hundred, million, katrillion times in the last year if I think I am up to this challenge.  I honestly do not have the answer to that.  I have done well with my course work thus far, but the really tough courses lie yet ahead.  Time will tell.  If I can’t make the cut, it won’t be because I haven’t given all trying.  Stay tuned…

And now for the best part of my year.  The VERY BEST part.

A few weeks into the school year last fall, one of my administrators mentioned during a meeting that some of our students were residents of a local homeless shelter. I was amazed to learn that just three blocks from the school sat a homeless shelter. I could not stop thinking about that shelter, the kids that live there, and my place in this world.

I ended up calling the shelter a week or so later and asked if they would allow me to come in and read to kids once a week or so. I felt even then that it was important that the children are empowered with choice of text, and after reading, gift the book to the child. The shelter folks agreed and I was excited to embark on a new adventure.  My husband suggested I call the local hospital and see if the pediatric floor would agree to my services there as well. “Enthusiastic response” is something of an understatement. The Volunteer Services director nearly pulled me through the phone receiver so that I could begin immediately.

After many weeks of required volunteer orientation, blood work, background check, etc., etc., I was reading to kids in the hospital. Then some of my coworkers wanted to join me.  So I called Jane, the Volunteer director, again. Long story short… Project Armchair was born. In the year since that first phone call, there are now twenty volunteers, with more interested.  We have had almost two-thousand books donated to our organization, we have an advisory council, we have been featured on the local news, I have been guest speaker at several civic organizations and more scheduled, and we have three other cities interested in starting chapters.

Wow. 

It makes my head spin a little. I am so humbled by the interest other teachers have shown in wanting to also volunteer their precious free time to read to children in crisis. I do not know what the end-point is to all of this.  I don’t think about that too much. Time will tell and God is in control.

In other quadrants of my life, my children are settled and doing well. My husband and I eagerly look toward our newly-emptied nest. I have lots on my plate to keep me happily challenged. All of those years I spent at home, raising children, growing a garden the size of Central Park, attending elementary/junior high/high school sporting events (sometimes all on the same day), and wondering what my life would look like post-children, I could not have foreseen such a wonderful career so late in my life. Let me assure you, there is no boredom here. I am THANKFUL for the opportunities my Creator has handed me. He knows me so well.  Knows what energizes me. What makes me tick. What fulfills me. In short, life is crazy-busy. But I think I am happiest when I am going a hundred miles an hour, hair on fire. I must, right?

I found a book recently. Or rather, it found me. I saw it on the shelf and it willed me to pick it up. It had a rather simple-looking cover and the intriguing title, “What Do You Do with an Idea?” by Kobi Yamada. This book is my new favorite children’s picture book. I won’t spoil it for you – find it and read it for yourself. But it closes with these appropriate words, “I don’t know how to describe it, but it went from being here to being everywhere. It wasn’t just a part of me anymore… it was a part of everything. And then I realized what you do with an idea… You change the world” (Yamada, 2013).

I don’t need to change the world, just make it a little better. 

Here’s to a new year, new challenges, and new ideas.

(If you are interested in reading some entries from my blog journal and meeting some of the children I read to, please visit our blog: http://projectarmchair.blogspot.com and find us on Facebook and Twitter).

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.