I'm probably gonna get in trouble for blogging about this. There's really no probably about it.
Isabela is taking a literature co-op class that Shelby took years ago. She didn't want to take it. Izzy doesn't like to write. She doesn't think she is good at it. But Shelby took this same class from Jennifer years ago and the progress she made in writing was encouraging. So when we were given the blessed opportunity for Izzy to take it I didn't hesitate.
I'm not supposed to read what she writes.
I'm not to correct it or hint suggestions or just look at her the wrong way so she knows to fix something. And for me, if you know me, that is a hard one.
I sit down at computer to check bank (yep, still doing that. Won't it be nice when the day comes that I don't have to check in everyday to be sure there's enough to make it through that day? I have a feeling I'll be living a heavenly life before that happens. And that's okay.)
And there is her writing. She didn't click off or exit out or whatever. And I look at it. But I don't read. And there it is. That ever knawing gut feeling that I get when I'm about to do something I'm not supposed to do.
Ever get that? Sure you don't. Can anyone say I'm a mama?
I swivel in the chair and look the other way. I ponder. I swivel back and the other way and ponder some more. I minimize it.
What will it hurt to read it? It's not her journal writing. It's just a writing on a children's book she read. Just for practice. It's not private. And Jennifer is my secret twin and she would read it if in the same boat and she is the teacher so after a short time of rationalizing I click on and read.
She writes this book she reads reminds her if she is ever some place she doesn't like she can simply turn her head and walk the other way. She writes the book makes her feel good and as if she can accomplish anything. That the book reminds her she'll struggle and fall and that friends will come and go and that one day she might end up alone. She says she knows there will be bumps in her life she has to crawl over and that life is going to be harder than she expects and that there will be smaller bumps on the big bumps but there will always be a way to make it through.
And I'm looking at the grammer and how she quotes the book and wondering if I should tell her I accidentally read it so I can help her make corrections.
But then I read the last paragraph.
And I forget to breathe for a moment. Because this is being written by the girl everyone thinks has it all together. But she doesn't. Who does? And she lives every day with the knowledge that some people choose to not like her. That some of the people she is to respect have chosen to put her in a neat little box they think she belongs in because they have put other girls in it. And she doesn't belong there. And she knows it. And I know it. And it can be hard. And it hurts her. But she is learning to live with it because that is what people do and this is what one does when they do.
And I read her last words. That it is important to her to keep her head on straight. That she never wants to forget who she is. That she doesn't want to look toward something that appears grand and wonderful to discover she should have turned away from it.
And then in this little paper I wasn't supposed to read, this little paper that is just what a children's book makes her feel like, she writes that she wants to be guided by the One that created her and everything around her.
Isabela's not perfect. Who is? She puts toothpaste on her pimples at night and longs to have a mole she thinks is ugly removed and hasn't memorized all her time tables and can't keep her room clean. She knows what it is to be selfish and all-consuming when she should be aware. But who doesn't? Certainly her mama does.
But children's books make her think of her future and her future includes God by her own choosing.
So to my darlin' sack of baby bones - yep, this world can be hard and there are huge bumps on top of the hugest bumps but you will be just fine. And you will never, ever end up alone. That is a pinkie promise.