“When I grow up, I’m going to be a nun … Or a figure skater … Can I be both?” — Madalen, 6 years old.
When I was pregnant with Andrew I started a journal. Week by week I would enter the changes, from the first beating of his heart to the formation of toes. The journal continued past his delivery and into his childhood. Once I was pregnant with Nicolas I started one for him, and then one for Elijah.
I recently pulled them out to share some of the entries. The kids especially love the quotes that I had entered into their books – funny or profound things they had said with their little mouths.
“I’m so glad we all believe in the same God. Why is it taking so long to get to heaven?” — Andrew, age 5.
After I had read some, Madalen asked me where her journal was. I had to confess that, while I had started one for her, and one for her younger brother Isaac, it was on a computer that long ago sizzled to its death when someone dropped a glass of orange juice on it. The look of disappointment was hard to take. “You didn’t write it by hand in a book?” she asked.
I’m not someone with a particularly good memory. Old friends will bring up hilarious stories from our teenage years and I’m lucky if I can remember any of the details. Having six small children makes for a lot of blurry years. But for Madalen, Isaac, and Thomas that didn’t take away the sting of being … forgotten?
“Ahhhhhhh! Mommy, I saw something fat in your bed… was it Daddy?” — Elijah 4
Then during the night I remembered that Facebook has an activity log. You can use a filter to pull up any year and month and then scroll through your old posts. One thing I knew for sure was that Facebook doesn’t sizzle out from orange juice, and I was very good at posting funny things the kids said and did there.
“If I ever get to be a saint, I wonder if I can be the patron saint of eating …” — Isaac 5
So I got to it. So far I’ve made it to 2018, and when I showed the kids what I had collected, their eyes lit up and they laughed at each other and themselves.
I suppose these kinds of things might confirm a certain idea that children … well, all of us … have a self-centred outlook. They want to hear stories about themselves. But I didn’t think of it that way. I thought about it as every person’s desire, and need, to be seen, known, and remembered.
Before 10 a.m. Thomas had stolen scissors and cut his brother’s craft, destroyed his sister’s Lego set, stolen her jewelry, climbed up our dresser, jammed his finger in the drawer, dumped his breakfast on the floor, grabbed his brother’s science experiment, and all of this AFTER drinking a bottle of holy water. Lord, help me. — Thomas, age 2
I think many humans feel a sense of being forgettable. Maybe we feel that we aren’t truly seen; people aren’t interested in us, our thoughts, our words. We don’t feel worthy. I know that the devil is sinister and he has ways of encouraging those thoughts, for to feel unworthy is to forget the love of God. To feel forgettable is to feel less-than. Less than loveable, less than a child of God.
I wanted my kids to know that I was watching them, and that they – they themselves – in their quirks and wonders, were observed and recorded because they were worth observing and being recorded. They were each unique from the other, individuals with something to say, or think, or contribute that was different than the one next to them. And my hope is that this recognition of their unique lovability will transfer to their relationship with God, who truly sees and knows the very core of each one of us: broken, weak, brave, trying, reaching, seeking, laughing, crying, rejoicing.
“Why is he looking for treasure?! He should be looking for Jesus!” Nicolas 3½
He sees and knows you, the very deepest parts of you. He has taken true pleasure at your success and your faithfulness, your wit, and your beauty. He has been let down too, surely, but has never given up, or forgotten you. I think that is something worth remembering.
“The eyes of the Lord are on the righteous, and his ears are open to their cry.” — Psalm 34
