#TellHisStory: A Love Letter for A Second-Born Child
Dear Daughter,
I loved you instantly, of course.
It was the second time in my life that a delivery-room nurse had placed a wrinkled newborn girl in my arms.
When my lips brushed across your cheek, I knew it would be a cinch to love you as much as I loved your big sister. But I knew I’d need to love you differently.
I was smitten. And I was terrified—not of what you’d be like, but what I’d be like as your mother. What if I made comparisons? And what if my sloppy parenting ruined you for life?
Sure, I loved you instantly. But what if I didn’t love you right?
My dog-eared pregnancy books didn’t yield answers. The right answers would need to be lived, over the rugged terrain of years.
Your older sister was the echo of my soul, my own mini-me. Mothering her has always felt like parenting an updated version of myself. But you, dear daughter? You were a mystery. Discipline techniques that worked on your sister would throw you into a red-faced toddler rage. You zigged when I zagged. You wanted to color outside the lines—and on the walls. We now know your inner artist was simply trying to find a way to bust loose.
My worst fear? That I would accidentally bust up what God created, while trying to recreate you in my own image.
Your sister is the classic firstborn—high-achieving, organized and responsible. She has a color-coordinated closet, shiny trophies, and clever stories to keep us entertained at the supper table.
I knew enough about birth order to know that you might grow up feeling like you were living in someone’s shadow. And your big sister has always cast a very big shadow.
Everybody talked about what a “perfect baby” your sister was. She was happy and precocious and whip-smart. You’re ten years old now, and you found out a long time ago that your thirteen-year-old sister is the life of the party and the top of the Honor Roll.
Your sister holds microphones confidently, in front of big audiences, sharing about our family’s love for Haiti. You sit beside me watching her, and we hold hands. I squeeze your hand, and press my forehead against yours, because I want you to know that I am as proud of you as I am of her. Your love for Haiti is no less fiery than hers. You have been on the same trips, and you do some amazing things, too. You simply don’t feel as comfortable telling a big crowd of people about it. But I’ve never once saw you jealous about all of that.
At night, by the light of your lamp, I pray with you. I tell God out loud how proud I am of you — and how awesome you are. (I don’t typically speak for God, but I think it’s safe to say that He agrees with me.)
Daughter, have I told you lately how talented and beautiful and smart and funny and compassionate you are?
For heaven’s sake, what’s not to love? You wear lobsters on your shirt, and you teach me to make Emoji cookies. Kid, you crack me up.
{Above: Do you spy the Poo Emoji Cookies?}
You are your very own YOU. God forbid, that I would put you in a box neatly drawn by your birth-order, some personality-test, some expectation that you’re extraverted, or introverted, or whatever-verted. You are, simply, you. Beautiful, one-of-a-kind you.
You don’t belong in a box with tight boundaries. You belong to a God of boundless grace.
You can trust God with your story, because He is the one who wrote it. You don’t have to live up to someone else’s expectations — including what your own mother might mistakenly project on you.
May God forgive me, if I ever cause you to operate out of fear. May you only operate out of your enough-ness.
Dear child, I watch with deep admiration how you are blooming into your own brand of awesome. I watch and I learn from you.
Every spring, I see how you run for the lilacs when they begin to bloom. You always press your whole self into the scent of spring.
I envy you in those moments, how you lose yourself in a scrubby old bush in our backyard. I used to do that, when I was your age. So in a way, you remind me of me — the me I want to be again, the me that gets so blasted lost in the inglorious nature of “maturity.”
Keep up with your you-ness, dear child. It’s beautiful. Color outside the lines. Pray your quiet prayers. Remember: You’ve got a shadow that’s pretty incredible. Keep rejecting fear. Don’t stop trusting God with your story. Stay spontaneous. Don’t let maturity rob you of your zippiness. Wear lobsters on your shirt forever-and-ever-amen. Remember you’re preapproved. And keep reminding me, too, okay?
And always, always — dear girl — run for the lilacs.
I love you.
Mom
#TellHisStory
Hey Tell His Story crew! It’s always a joy to gather here every week. The linkup goes lives each Tuesday at 4 p.m. (CT). If you would use the badge on your blog, found here, that would be great. And if you would visit at least one other blogger in the link-up and encourage them with a comment, that would be beautiful! Be sure to check the sidebar later. I’ll be featuring one of you over there! Rachel Lamfers is our latest featured writer. She writes, “Sometimes, we are the ones who need to be comforted, and other times, we are the ones who are able to comfort others.” (To be considered as our featured writer, be sure to use our badge or a link to my blog from your post. 🙂 )
xo Jennifer
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