I am unbelievably excited about what is waiting for me at the other end of this flight, but I am more than a little anxious about leaving Kevin and her father for four days straight. I've never been away from either of them that long (not since the last trip to Texas, wherein Kevin wasn't even born or thought of quite yet). I've spent the last few days preparing for their weekend, giving Scott itinerary ideas: dinner with his brother's family on Friday night, a daddy-daughter date to the zoo on Saturday, a family gathering Sunday morning. I went to the library and checked out board books with the word "Daddy" in the title and even picked up "the Princess Encyclopedia" because I figured it might be handy information for this dad of my daughter. I went grocery shopping and picked up extra snacks for Kevin and treats for Scotty, as if some extra sugar and cans of chili (because I don't like what happens after he eats chili so usually he doesn't eat it around me) can make up the fact that I am leaving them.
Scott has dubbed this week "the week from down south" (so I have taken to calling it Provo Week) at work. By the time he got home yesterday, he'd logged 32 hours in three days. I know to a lot of you out there, that might not seem very grand, but for us, it has been an adjustment to have him gone so much when we are used to being together in the evenings. Not only is Scott training at work, but he is learning a new position, and his May 15th deadline to get everything done came both too quickly and not soon enough. I see the exhaustion in his eyes, which makes me feel a little bit worse, knowing that a weekend full of diapers and bedtime and naptime battles awaits, with no partner to share the load. To make things even better, last night Kevin started her teething routine again and so we all got to bed late and up early.
But somewhere in all of her tears last night, Kevin taught me another little lesson about letting go. I was singing to her our traditional bedtime lullaby, a song I learned at Girl's Camp that I hope, through nightly repetition, will get through to her spirit some how and teach her who she really is and why she is really here. And although singing this song to her has been a daily occurrence for over a year now, sometimes I still get teary and have to stop singing and start whispering.
Walk tall, you're a daughter
A child of God
Be strong, please remember who you are
Try to understand, you're part of His great plan
He's closer than you know
Reach up, He'll take your hand
If only she knew.
If only she knew how much I love her. How much her daddy loves her. How much our Heavenly Father loves her. In my mind, her little 14-month-old brain isn't capable of understanding such love. But then again, there are moments, like last night, when she had just calmed down from crying and unexpectedly wrapped her arms around my head and touched her lips to my hair, when I think perhaps she understands love better than I do.
If only she knew that she is never alone. How many people surround her, giving her support--people she can see, angels she can't.
If only she knew how much good she has to do in this world, and what a grand purpose she has that nobody knows yet. What is her mission in life to be?
Walk tall, you're my daughter
Kevin has been practicing walking all week long. Each day she gets a little bit stronger, a little bit steadier, a little bit faster, a little bit braver. Each day she takes more tumbles and gives a few more smiles, a few more tears.
A child of God
Her favorite place to come to walk is to me.
Be strong, please remember who you are
And although she usually falls at least once along the way to my arms, she usually gets back up and tries again. Occasionally though, after a particularly hard bump, she will sit and hang her shoulders in discouragement, and then look at me with her sad eyes and hold up her arms. I cuddle her for a minute, wipe away the tears, and set her back down on her feet.
Try to understand, you're part of His great plan
And somewhere along the lines, yesterday I realized that is exactly what Heavenly Father does for me, every day of my life. I get up, I start cruising along, I take a tumble, I make a mistake. Sometimes I can pick myself back up. Sometimes I need His encouragement. Sometimes, I feel those loving arms wrapped around me, telling me that it is okay, He's provided a way.
He's closer than you know
I am reminded of a scripture that I found on my mission during a particularly tough week. It comes from the Book of Mormon, in the Book of 2 Nephi, 1:15.
"But behold, the Lord hath redeemed my soul from hell; I have beheld his glory, and I am encircled about eternally in the arms of his love. "
During that same week, my companion and I had tracted into a middle-aged man in the midst of several apartment buildings in a college town. This man was kind, albeit uninterested. With a twinkle in his eye, he looked at us and smiled and said, "I bet God is just looking down on you right now and saying, 'there's My girls.'" This stranger's confidence that God not only loved us, but God approved of what we were doing, gave me courage and reminded me that He is closer than I know.
Reach up, He'll take your hand.
I am going on this trip. It has been planned for months, practically years. And it's not just for "fun"--although I know I am going to have a blast--it is to show love and support and gratitude for a job well done. I know that if I let them go, my fears and anxieties will be eased and I can do what I am setting out to do. Although I look forward to a season in my life where we can travel recreationally and see all the places I read so much about, for right now I am content with experiencing them through reading. This trip is not about a place, it is about people. When they hear about my trip, friends and family keep asking what I am most excited to see--and I just smile and tell them it isn't the what, it's the who, the ones I can't wait to encircle with my arms.
So I will let go of those little arms for a moment in time, entrusting her care to others, just as her Heavenly Father entrusted her care to me. And by the time I get home, she will walk taller with even more confidence.
Straight into my arms.
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