Oh, Anna.
You're growing up so quickly. Most parents feel immense internal conflict at watching their children age: on the one hand, thrilled that they've kept their kids alive for this long and on the other pining for the diaper days.
As you approach another birthday week, I find myself amazed by your wisdom.
January 20th marked another Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. memorial holiday. As we approached the weekend, we rejoiced in having a Monday off together as a family. The cheer, however, was short-lived, as the conversation unfolded like this:
"Mommy," you began, "Mr. B says Dr. King is a hero. He worked hard to make all people live together in peace".
"Mr. B. is right, sister. Dr. King was a great man. He even went to jail and died working to change laws and help make sure all African American people have rights to live in a safe place and go to great schools."
A look of horror spreads across your face and I immediately recognize my mistake. As is my unfortunate habit, I've said too much. Again.
"Mr. B didn't' tell us he went to jail," you began to tear up. "Mr. B. lied to us. He didn't tell us Dr. King died, either." And you began to sob. You cried for two hours. You asked so many beautiful questions: How could this happen? Why did people hate Dr. King so much? Why do people need to hate each other?
And I realize this is the first time for you. You've never before seen abject vitriol, less the devious disdain from a villainous Disney character, and you don't quite know how to be. Because you go to sleep at night feeling safe and loved and unafraid.
You're so heart broken you refuse dinner. You stare at your food through tear-brimmed eyes, and I won't stop you from your rage because it is righteous and holy and good.
After we clean up, we head to the couch and you lay your head on my chest. Your body is draped on mine and it is heavy and tired with grief.
There aren't words a parent can give for a feeling like this. There are no words for the ugly. And I hold you without speaking. We stay like that for a while - silent.
Anna, every morning, when I walk you to school, I say the same goodbye: "You're a good listener and hard worker and a kind friend and I'm always already proud of you." It will get old some day (Sam already shows signs that it is wearing on him), but I'll do it every single day. Because that's the voice I want you to hear when you're wondering who you actually are in this world.
And you'll forget, as we all do, that you are these things. You'll get tired or hungry or angry at the ugly of this world and you'll forget who you always already are. I won't always be here to remind you, of course, because life is like that. But when I'm gone, and you're tired and hungry and angry at the ugly, I want you to remember these things.
You will listen to the hopes and fears of others and you will know that all people deserve life and love and home. You will work hard - whatever that means for you - to spread your precious love and joy to others who have forgotten that they, too, are all these things. And you'll offer up the gift of brave and endless friendship with your whole heart.
And sometimes, you'll suffer great losses because that's just a part of the deal.
But when hurt happens, and it will, I want you to cry tears of holy anger and grieve with the grieving - without shame. Your heart is broken because things are broken, and we only heal when we honor the wounds within us.
And please remember, no matter what happens, I am always already proud of you.
