They Would Sell Their Souls for Love

Daughter.

There are some days when this tomboy of a mother wishes she had four sons, and today was one of those days.

Although her transgression is six months past, today I discovered something desperately heartbreaking about my daughter: she needs me.

Auditioning for The Royal Ballet School, London

As a single mum, I am more often than not uber-busy, struggling under deadlines both professional and personal.  I spin too many plates as I care for my seed, meeting their needs and sacrificing much to grant many of their wants too.  My children eat well, have clothes upon their backs, shoes upon their feet; they dance, play soccer, basketball, baseball, softball, and swim.  I often coach at least one respective team each season.  We watch movies, walk, play and read together.

People who become acquainted with my wee family confess they "don't know how I do it."  I often return that I don't know either.  I just do it. (I also workout like an animal, but that's another post for another time.)

Perhaps it's my way of [over]compensating for the failures of our broken family.  It hurts deeply that I could and cannot in myself provide what is lacking.  It could be my way of atoning for my own mother's neglect and reservation.  In her own immaturity, having given birth to me yet in her teens, she showed little love for me after I turned six, declaring I had pushed her away, that she had not withheld.  I dunno.  I'm still gazing at that crevasse of a belly-button, seeking and searching for answers.

I just do it.

Until today I thought it was enough, enough to sacrifice and give and enable and serve.  I thought she felt all that daring and stalwart love that runs so deep and wide and high in my heart and veins for her, my firstborn.  How had I missed this?

Actions do not speak louder than words to a young heart; [she] must feel it in your touch, see it in your eye, hear it in your tones, or you will never convince child or [girl] that you love [her], though you labour day and night for [her] good and [her] pleasure (Charlotte Mason, Vol 5, p. 116).

Halloween, wearing the Poodle Skirt I made for her when she was eight

She needs me.

She needs me to tell her that I love her.  It's not enough to sacrifice.  She's yet too young to understand all I do to make her biggest dreams come true, and I am dense and dull to expect her to interpret on her own my love through works.  She must hear it from my own lips.  

I cannot be too busy to tell her how much she means to me; how I cannot imagine my life without her; how she makes me a better person by her examples.

She needs me to touch her.  When did it become so uncommon to hold her?  Today I reached out to her in my own frenzied pain, my own sense of the greater consequences somehow by grace avoided.  I wanted to yell more.  I wanted to shake her until she understood the gravity of her foolishness.  I wanted to shame her as my mother often shamed me.  But, ever the tomboy, I just tackled her and held on for her dear life.  She melted and cried and confessed and was restored.  

I cannot be too busy to love her with my mother's touch, to hold her hand, to place her big body on my strong lap, to cuddle or pat on the back.

She needs to see approval in my eye.  I admit, I give "the look."  I don't know exactly how I look when I give it--I've considered allowing them to provoke and videotape me--but I know that I give it and sometimes often.  With four at home at nearly all times, there is much conflict and much sin, but "the look" stops each and every one.  It's a powerful look.

I wonder if my look of approval, of acceptance, of delight is given equally as often.  I doubt it.  We are all such fallen creatures...we are all such fallen creatures that I should be less surprised.  I should be less provoked.  I should be more gracious and long-suffering.  I have my moments.  Most times (if I've spent myself well in the gym and have stayed to my diet--another post), I use humor and the warmth of my touch to diffuse much.  I grab and hug and tickle and giggle.  I tell them I see their sinny-sin-sin.  I pick them up like babies and tell them I'm putting them in a "time-out."  We have fun.  

I cannot be too busy to approve of her, to share with her the intimacy of relationship with her mother, to model God's own infinite approval of her in Christ.

She needs to hear that I value her.  Being a Marine, I know how to command.  I can fling an imperative sentence around with the best of 'em on Parris Island.  I never say "now" because it's always and definitely implied.  Often I lack gentleness, even when the command is benign and my heart is light.  It's my greatest weakness, and I really have no idea how to change, but I keep trying.  Perhaps today's shock was enough to convince me that I cannot be too busy to touch her heart with the kind and respectful tones of my voice; to convey my love, my approval, my acceptance of such a valuable and lovely soul--my daughter.

But, dear mother, take your big schoolgirl in your arms just once in the holidays, and let her have a good talk, all to your two selves; it will be to her like a meal to a hungry man. For the youths and maidens––remember, they would sell their souls for love; they do it too, and that is the reason of many of the ruined lives we sigh over. Who will break down the partition between supply and demand in many a home where there are hungry hearts on either side of the wall? (Charlotte Mason, Vol. 5, p. 117)

May I feed her hungry heart with the heartiest meal of my love for her.  May I never be too busy to take her into my arms and allow her to talk and share and dream and confide, just and all to our two selves.  May she never know ruin for my reservation, for my lack of demonstration.  May I never sigh.