What I Know Full Well

George is away for the weekend experiencing the finest bluegrass music out there at Merlefest. Then camping by a creek. He is in heaven. I told him I could handle the kids by myself no problem. I wanted him to go and enjoy himself and have the best time ever. He has wanted to go for years on years and before we move further south, while he has the time . . . 

He left Friday morning only after making me promise that I would not have any crisis.

By noon, someone had hit our car in a parking lot and failed to leave a note.
By three, it was quite clear I was not as sure of myself as a mother alone with three children as I thought I was. 

At 5:30, George Wilder fell and bashed his face against a brick. Faces and bashes equal a lot of blood. It was a crisis. Our sweet neighbor Bill came quickly and was very helpful. After I nearly passed out because of the over abundance of blood, we called hero Beka to come clean the wound. After a good bit of debate, we knew there was nothing a doctor could do, so we set to icing and resting and hoping that his two front teeth will hold. I wanted to badly for George to be here, to make it all better, to make all the decisions, to hold George Wilder and love him and help him. 

In the midst of all this, I have a six year old girl that isn't little anymore. She has a million questions a minute and I don't have all the answers. She has her own opinion, her own ideas, her own way of thinking. It clashes with still being six and needing to obey and needing to be kind to her brother. 

I felt like all the words out of my mouth were corrections and redirections and frustrations. How could this be? Where did sweet obedient Amelia go? Why can't she just be easy going? Especially now, now that George is gone and I'm dealing with an infant and a hurt child? 

As my friend Kelly prayed that I would have wisdom and grace and my friend Helen suggested that I find the root of the problem, I realized it was a matter of my own brokenness, my own way of handling life. Amelia is, after all, only six. She isn't out and about frolicking with friends and with classmates. She is with me. She is emulating her mother. I'm the one that thinks I can do it all by myself but I can't. I'm the one that speaks harshly to her and to George Wilder and gives demands. I'm the one that is impatient and pushes when I shouldn't. I'm the one that wants a chance to try on my own to figure something out. 

Saturday was slow, but with this knowledge, words were softened, directions and redirections seasoned with encouragement. Laughter sprinkled over the work. We found a rhythm and grace to be in this place of being six and being a daughter and sister and thinker and grower. 

Amelia is beautiful. She has such dimension. She asked if she could make bread the other day. She made the most delicious bread with absolutely no help (and no measuring devices). She fixes her hair in the cutest (sometimes not so cute) ways. She even offered to fix mine. How sweet to sit and have her brush my hair and twist it and use her butterfly net over my head to smooth the fly aways. Yes, her butterfly net. She is wonderful. This is what I need to wake up remembering and remember that every second of the day. My daughter is wonderful. She is fearfully and wonderfully made. I know that full well. 


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