When Scrunched Up Faces Reveal Secret Fears

She is laughing so hard that the sound ricochets up the steps.

(Not my daughter.)   Photo Credit:Alpha Chen, Creative Commons, cc license

"Oh no," she giggles in surprise and glee, "oh no." And the squealed laughter and mirth bubble up from deep within her. My daughter's laughter is known for being unrestrainable, uncontainable, and loud. Her delight is infectious, and her laughs and guffaws fill a room.

Silence now shuffles across the downstairs and glides noiselessly upstairs to where my husband and I are working. Computer keys tap staccato and night falls navy twilight through the deck door glass. Two firs loom tall, mirrored in glassy reflections of a yellow lit-kitchen behind me.

Taped to the wooden pantry door is a curling paper of names. Names of scientists, surgeons, musicians, artists, political leaders, and actors mingle near journalists and writers. Names like Alexander Graham Bell, Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Pablo Picasso, Leonardo Da Vinci, John Lennon, Woodrow Wilson, George Washington, Walt Disney, Agatha Christie, Orlando Bloom, Cher, Greg Louganis, and Henry Ford are just a few. Famous People with the Gift of Dyslexia, the article caption reads, and I've taped it there as an encouragement for my family. My teens scoff slightly at the term "gift" and wonder some days if that is true. Dyslexia runs in our family, and we have only just recently been learning more about it, and finding ways to use the strengths that come with it to offset the challenges that it brings as well. For those on a spectrum of dyslexia, it just means their brain took a different route for reading.

As a mom who is learning more about this --both the advantages and the challenges of dyslexia-- I ache at times with the hurt and uncertainty I see ripple across my loved one's faces. Even though research is showing that people with dyslexia problem-solve better, remember details of stories longer, and can think outside the box in wildly creative ways, it doesn't change the anxiety that can sometimes spring up.

These facts and my words bring no comfort some days, and I watch it crumple across their faces, or scrunch up behind deep brown eyes that pool in hurt or scowl in protective anger. Their fear that they are not enough, not capable, not smart hurts my heart and wakes me up some nights.

Because whether loved ones in our lives approach reading differently, or see the world uniquely in other ways, the results are the same. We get to stand beside them, and point them to the truths. "You are strong, capable, talented, determined, and intelligent -- yes, intelligent! You are so valuable and loved. And you are created by an Artist God who loves you and has great plans for you-- for your joy and for his glory."

Her laughter has died down now, and it must be a quieter part of the show. She is one of the many loved ones in my life that I am so lucky to know. Her love of life and her zeal rise up around her, and her hard work to teach herself drawing and Mandarin Chinese impress and amaze me.

The two tall firs have disappeared into velvety blackness now, and the sound of computer keys grows still. Hidden by the night, the trees continue growing silently.

To the Women and Daughters Beside You and Me

"This was Anja?" 

Photo: Andrew Iverson, Creative Commons, cc license

Bouncing jaunty shoulders to big band swing, her blonde curl ringlets dipped and swayed too. In a crowd of several hundred, we gaped in surprise and shook heads in mirthful laughter. Our reserved Finnish high schooler had a larger-than-life dramatic side of her that we didn't often see. The show-choir dance piece ended with thirty synchronized bows and our two rows of moms and daughters clapped, grinned, and cheered.

Before the show, four carloads of us met for a Mexican supper, dragging restaurant tables closer, shaping a long line of friends. Moms and daughters, young and older, pulled up chairs, and dipped salty tortilla chips into fresh red salsa. Laughter ricocheted loudly in our corner of the dark restaurant, and moms shushed an end table of teens while the waiter leaned in close to hear our order.

And throughout the evening, an elementary girl wrapped arms close with a middle school girl. Senior high girls smiled and pulled in the younger girls, talking with them across the tables, and dragging them into group photos. Twenty-year olds mingled in with forty-year olds, whispering and giggling throughout the night, and the beauty of it was priceless. 

In between the Broadway hits and the jazzy big band songs, one girl on stage caught my attention. She wasn't one of my youth group girls that I knew or had met, but she was someone. And we all are, huh? She is someone's daughter, someone's friend, someone's sister, and the sight of her made me tear up. Dancing with great talent in a blue sequined dress, her sunken cheeks and bone-thin legs and arms sent warning lights off in my brain. With her inherent soulful inner beauty never in question, this young teen was either recovering from ravaging illness or she was in the deep throes of anorexia. My youth worker's heart ached to  know how I could help, and I wanted to assure her that she was strong, and that her beauty was never trapped to a dress size, and that there was hope and help. She danced determinedly across the stage, mincing steps on legs that seemed too narrow to support her, and I choked back tears. "You have always been lovely and capable, brimming with potential, you --this young sister/daughter that I do not know. How can we come alongside and help?" I whispered silently, uselessly. Knowing my only choice was to pray, I tapped my toes to the rhythm, cheered the teams on, and prayed for this girl, and all the teens on stage.

My role? Your role? To model and tell the girls and women around us of their value, their beauty, and the strength and potential that has been imprinted in them by their Creator. We bear the stamped-in seal of the Star-Breather, the Galaxy-Spinner, and the Light-Bringer. Over grilled steak tacos in the restaurants, and when cheering on big band singers, while leaning over to speak with twenty-somethings, sixteen-year olds, and everyone in between, we get to invest in each other, and talk about our amazing God who loves, and creates, and spins works of art.

Hi friends. Join me in this endeavor? It is such an honor and joy that we get to invest in and treasure these relationships around us.

Hey, if you think about it, would you pray with me about some upcoming speaking engagements? I am honored to speak at some MOPS groups and women's conferences on Feb. 5th, Feb. 18th, March 6 & 7th, and March 19th? I am honored, and love this chance to spend time praying for these women beforehand too. Thank you. How can I pray for you? (Those in email can click here to comment.)

How God Made a Daughter

 She waylays him with a hug.

"Dad, when do you have to leave tonight?"

At the news that worship practice had been called off, she dances excitedly beside him, jumping, squealing and persuading him with her smiles. "Want to watch a show with me?"

He grins, groans, and affectionately agrees.

Minutes later, they are at the couch, typing in the coordinates for an online Japanese animated film, and waiting for the movie to buffer.

"Want to make me some food?" he jokes, expecting a glass of milk.

"Sure, some noodles?" she offers.

"Wow, really?" My husband is thrilled, and we make eye contact and laugh.

The home-made beef lo mein she has learned to make is a new hit at our house, and we eat it several times a week now, it seems. Tucked away in my corner at the computer desk, I sip orange zinger tea, watch the snow fall, and join them in this relaxed evening at home.

Snow falls quickly, cascading into grey twilight to stack all night to a depth of eight to twelve inches, forecasters say. For now, though, patches of spring grass stand resolute under the onslaught, and a plate of beef lo mein has just arrived.

I watch my husband and our teen daughter laugh, talk, and scoop noodles, companionably, and I see it in her. The way she carries herself, how she throws back her head and laughs freely, and in her peaceful calm as she curls legs up onto the couch, settling in for the movie. This is a girl who knows she is loved. With the pure safe love of a dad, a mom, and her God, this woman-child is loved and treasured.

And the beauty of it falls glorious.

And we are broken, and human, and flawed parents, but somehow, somewhere, God brought beauty anyway, and it humbles and thrills me.

She's yours, God. You did it, and you only. Thank you. And I offer it to you as praise, and am honored to love other teens in my care too.


(And linking quietly to Emily at Imperfect Prose too...)

Helping Teens See Themselves (and Perhaps Helping You and Me too?)

I see it in their eyes sometimes.The quiet uncertainty that ripples out from quick side glances and downward gazes, to the way they walk and hold themselves some days.

"Do you see me?" "Am I visible, beautiful, interesting?"

This inner longing to be known, to be seen, to be captivating --we all wrestle with it, teens and adults alike, some days.

And so I purposefully reach out, speaking their names aloud as I see them, pass them in bus aisles, and sit beside them, across from cheeseburgers and sweet southern teas.

Speaking a teen's name aloud to them, looking them deep in the eyes, asking questions and listening hard, I strive to show them they are seen, cared for, valuable. And they have value, not because I see them or another person sees them, but because they were created by an Artist God who loves them and delights in them.

Saturday night in our hotel room, halfway through a weekend-long youth retreat, ten of us senior high girls and leaders gathered round. On beds, cots, couches, and carpeted floors, we curled up cross-legged.

"Have you seen the sketch-artist Dove experiment that has been blitzing facebook this week?" I asked my girls.

In the experiment, women in a waiting room were told two things: 1.) they were here to talk to a sketch artist, and 2.) to be friendly with the women around them, getting to know them. As their turn with the sketch artist arrived, the women entered another room and were asked to describe themselves to the sketch artist behind the curtain. Haltingly, shyly, the women listed their own features. "A rounder face, stubby chin, turned up nose..." and a picture formed from the words they uttered. Afterwards, almost as an afterthought, the sketch artist asked each woman to describe someone by name they had met from the lobby. In glowing warm words, each woman spoke of their new friend's eyes, cheerful smile, cute nose and dimples, and flowing hair. Dismissed, the women left the room.

In a gripping finale, the women were invited back into the artist's gallery to see two portraits hanging side by side for each of them. On the left was the artist's rendering of the woman describing herself. Each woman's insecurities amplified the features they were shyest about. Noses or chins were exaggerated, disproportionate.

Hanging to the right, however, was a second portrait, drawn from descriptions by friendly new acquaintances in the lobby. Suddenly, tears fell and silence dropped as women saw their own beauty through the eyes of others. A truer, gentler picture emerged for each woman through the eyes of strangers in the waiting room.

 My girls and I, we sat curled up and crossed-legged on couches, cots, and carpeted floors, as I told this story. And then with torn notebook paper and pens, we scribbled until our hands hurt, sketching images of beauty for the women beside us, telling them how we really saw them. Written words traced beauty in them; drawing a line around kind eyes, generous spirits, and fierce loyalty towards others; highlighting the skills and talents we saw in them. Our words erased the imperfections they hung onto --exaggerated in their minds-- and drafted sincere beauty.

Silence fell afterwards, once papers circled the room to arrive back at their owners. Each young woman read looping lines that traced her value and beauty from the new friends in the room.

Have YOU seen this newest Dove video, "Real Beauty Sketches"? Take a moment to watch this now. It's worth the three minutes, I promise you. Share it with your friends and families, will you?

Then, pick up a pen and perhaps trace some words of beauty to someone around you too? Let them know they are made by an Artist God who delights in them. 

Linking with Ann at A Holy Experience Emily at Imperfect Prose on a Dare to Love the Mom in the Mirror.

Car Conversations and Teen Talks

She climbed into the back seat of my car two weeks ago. "How was your day?" I asked. Short brown hair falling into her eyes, she buckled her seat belt as we drove away.

After a few minutes of conversation, my teen daughter burst out, the story tumbling from her lips. Someone had made barbed comments several times that day, couched in the term, "It was just a joke."

I listened to my daughter's accounts and tears, reaching back to squeeze her hand as I drove one-handed. We tried to reason out the situation, striving to understand and read pure intentions into the person's actions. Recognizing our own human insecurities, she and I talked of forgiveness, and grace, and love-filled assertive words.

Arriving home, we sat in our driveway for a few minutes to hug, wipe away last tears, and pray for a chance to show unconditional love to this person, while practicing helpful assertive phrases. Then we gathered our belongings and started through the door to prepare lunch.

Once upstairs, God suddenly nudged me. In all of our good psychological responding, I hadn't yet filled Morgan's void up with God's truth of who she was. Rushing downstairs, I grabbed her, pulling her close to me. Whispering in her ears for privacy, I started speaking God's words to her.

"You are loved, precious, highly valued, his child, bought with a price, a daughter of the king, a new creation, the apple of his eye. The king is enthralled with your beauty. He died for you, will rejoice over you with singing, takes great delight in you, carves your name into his hand, gathers up your tears, saves you, calls you his own, created by him, as his masterpiece, created to do great things which he has created in advance for you."

Her tears fell on my shoulder as she melted into me. A sigh shuddered her, and I felt truth course through her. "Thank you, Mom," she whispered, hugging me fiercely. "Thank you, God," I mouthed quietly to my Abba Dad.

What about you? What truths resonate deeply in you about who God says you are? What experiences have you had with teen children and friendships? 

(Update: My daughter is thankful for all the people in her life, and that situation is going much better now.)