Learning to Fly

Luke shot down the stairs with a grin and twinkle in his eye. “Mom, I really, really, really need my bicycle helmet and the video camera!” Although questions like this are common in our house, I always have the same response. “Where is your sister?” At only 17 months apart, my two youngest children spend their days planning elaborate adventures in their playroom fittingly named “The Lab.” Luke, at age seven, is the mastermind while Grace, age six, very willingly plays the role of his guinea pig.


On this day, after following Luke up to his room, I walked in to find Grace sitting calmly in the top bunk of Luke’s bed, one end of a jump rope tied around her waist while the other was looped through a blade on the ceiling fan. She pushed up her safety goggles as she asked Luke if he had found his bicycle helmet. Knowing the nature of most of their escapades, I inquired of my little engineer concerning his plan. “Well, Mom you know how we’ve been trying to get Grace to fly? (A fact I was most certainly and frightfully aware of.) I thought since the ceiling fan goes so fast, we could tie Grace to it and she could fly around the room!”


There are moments in life when one has a choice. These choices could likely affect the rest of one’s life. Taking in the scene, I realized I had three options: 1) I could run to my bed, crawl under the covers and lament to the gods for giving me such crazy children and find the nearest candy man (aka psychiatrist) to drug me, my children, or possibly both until they go to college. 2) I could begin an hour long lecture on safety and consequences with a possible call to the proper authorities. 3) I could just go with it. Aware of the fact our insurance did not currently have a prescription plan and appreciating their use of safety goggles and helmet, I chose to just go with it.


Not wanting to squelch my children’s creativity, I decided to ask about their planning process. That is when Grace showed me her baby doll. Luke went on to explain how they had first tested the ceiling fan idea with the doll. Seeing the extreme weight different between Baby Cinderella and my sweet Grace, I came across a major flaw. They both were looking at me with such excited expressions, determined their plan would work. Who am I to crush their dreams? I just threw down a few more pillows under the fan and prayed for no broken bones.


Really, isn’t that our job as parents – to help our children learn to fly? They are each given specific abilities and passions that steer their hearts. It is our duty to provide the environment for them to plan, imagine, and create. Unfortunately, we also need to let them fail. So we just offer some comfort and protection and watch them soar.


Thankfully, my son is not the most skillful knot-tier in the world, so Grace’s jump rope came loose from the fan as soon as she jumped fearlessly, faithful of her brother’s abilities. A few days later, I just watched as Luke led Grace outside with a handful of balloons and a roll of yarn. After a few moments, Grace tiptoed back inside and whispered, “Mama, if I fly away too far and get stuck in a tree, will you come get me?” Of course baby; I’ll always give you a safe place to land.

Mama's Hope

I love to hold my daughter's hand. I rub each finger and think of all she will do with these hands.  When will she get her first manicure getting ready for a special night? Who will be the first special someone to hold her hand? Will she later need to use the same fingers I now stroke to wipe away the tears he causes or cover her mouth as she laughs for joy? As her mind matures and her fingers stretch, will they be used to create magical paintings, play music that soothes the soul, delicately stitch the heart tissue of a trusting patient, or scrub dishes in the backroom of a New York greasy spoon? Will she cradle her child's head in her hands or cover her face as she weeps over her empty womb? Whose ring will grace her finger? Will it be worn with love or become a constant reminder of the source of bitterness she carries? As her hands begin to show the scars and callouses of life, who will be there to keep them warm? As age spots come, will she look down at them and be content with a life well lived or will she see tight clinched fists twisted with regret and disappointment? My hope for her is to live with her hands stretched open, palms to the sky, receiving God's blessing, letting it flow through her and passing on to others. In my brokenness, I rest in the faith it is not me alone who is responsible for her future. Though it is a daily sacrifice, I fold my own hands and put my hope in the One who created her chubby fingers and is continually knitting her tomorrows. Such is the hope of a mama.