I love the simple lessons I learn from observing my kids.

Yesterday I pulled up five minutes late to pick up L~ from softball practice. As I parked the car I saw L~ take off to run the bases at full speed. After she rounded second base she completely wiped out. One of the best wipe-outs I've ever seen on a softball field.

She got back up and took off to complete her run, trying to catch the girls who had passed her by. I laughed when she got in the car and told her that was the best wipe-out I'd ever seen!

Later she explained that they'd already run bases twice that day and L~ had been giving less than her best on the second run. The coach challenged them all to run it like they meant it on the last run.

I loved knowing that was why she'd been running all out when I saw her.

I loved that when she went down she probably went down a lot harder for how hard she was trying.

I loved that she got back up.

I loved that she came up running.

I also loved that she was a little disappointed when she realized she wasn't any worse for the wear (no battle scars).

I'm running just a bit late, but as I enter the second-floor Wymount apartment I'm struck by how tiny it is. Like a small box, really. I sit on the living room sofa and realize I can see more than half of their home and it's smaller than my bedroom. The truth is there are much closer piano teachers than this first-time instructor. More convenient piano teachers. But I look into her eager eyes, remember keenly what it's like to start out in humble circumstances, and realize that for now I need to drive my kids across town instead of let them walk across the street. I don't resent that; I just know that's what I need to do. And why.

It's 6:45 a.m. and I notice as a van pulls into the driveway at my next door neighbor's house. Is that who I think it is? Yes. You may remember her story. I notice her pained and awkward stride as she walks up to the door. I know without looking that she is carrying a package. A gift bag sith some trinket from the dollar store. Is it my neighbor's birthday, I wonder? Maybe. Maybe not. M~ will drop by her special gifts of love just about any time, in addition to remembering everyone's birthdays. Things are difficult for her right now as she, even in her impaired state, has the almost constant care of her three energetic grandchildren. Her daughter has left yet another troubled relationship and moved back in, but is busy with both school and work. Does she complain? Not so much. "I'm going to turn it over to the Lord," is her constant refrain. God bless the generous, resliient, humble, thoughtful, courageous, enduring M~.

The other day I let my daughter out the door knowing full well she was dressed inappropriately.

Not immodestly but definitely inappropriately.

It was the day of the school music fest and she should've worn something other than her usual attire--boys' gym shorts and a printed tee. It wasn't even one of her nicer printed tees. I quickly realized my reasoning with her was in vain and in my "choose-your-battle" kind of way sent her out the door with my usual, "Bye. Love you. Have a great day!"



Later that morning, as I made my way into the crowded auditorium I spotted her on the front row. She sings in the school choir. She stood there, quite tall for her age, among the tiny princesses in their ball gowns and their updos and even in make-up (we're talking K-6 here, people).

My initial thought was, "There! That will teach her a lesson!" A lesson that had gone unheeded when I tried to teach it to her this morning before she left for school.

But then reason worked it's way through my clouded head and I had second thoughts. Maybe this is the lesson I'd prefer her to learn. That it doesn't matter what is going on around her. How the world or the school or the other princesses tell her she should look.

She stood there boldly. Sending out the message, "This is me. This is who I am. And I'm OK with that."


Later that night she dressed herself for the evening performance she appropriately donned a skirt. A nicer tee. And she curled her hair. The next night she left for the performance in distress because she ran out of time and couldn't get her hair just quite right.


I believe the second lesson may be the greater lesson of the two. It's the lesson with which I continue to struggle. Evidently as does she. But I will always remember watching her stand there a sum greater than that of her parts or her wardrobe choices or her hairstyle. Unphased and unfettered. Free to be.