Behind the Door
I never know what kinds of treasures I will find when I walk into a child's room. There will be no pots of gold, or bags of jewels, or piles of money (although there may be some spare change here and there). No, I am talking about real treasure; not the kind that fills my bank account, but the kind that fills my heart.
Behind the door of the little girls' room lies a room that is never messy; everything is in its place. I go in to check on them at night, and I find the 7 year-old sleeping, the bed linens folded neatly beneath her chin. A pile of clothes is at the end of the bed, on the floor. They are not the clothes she wore today, but clothes for tomorrow, an entire outfit, neatly folded. Her 1 year-old sister is in her crib, sleeping in a nest of blankets; not neatly covered, but surrounded. She is aware of me as I stroke her peach-fuzz hair and silky cheek. She coos and snuggles up to her special toy and blanket, and I pat her back and leave.
I always cautiously open the boys' room door, as it usually appears that a bomb has exploded. It's harder to find treasures in here; a little digging (literally) is necessary. But there, under a pile of stuff, I find a drawing of a dragon. It's breathtakingly beautiful and detailed. The 9 year-old drew it while bored, on a piece of scrap paper. To him, it was mere doodling, but to me, it is precious and I pick it up and put it somewhere safe. I can see the 4 year-old has been playing with Legos, and has left the spaceship he painstakingly made on his bed, next to his cars and on top of the make-shift Batman cape he made using his blanket. I look around the room and see the 15 year-old's paintings, lovingly mounted and framed. I see he is in the middle of a Chemistry lesson, and books and notes are strewn across his desk, mixed in with shell casings from his gun, sketches of cars, his Bible, and some laundry (not sure if it's clean). The desk is a picture of how his mind works; he dabbles in this and that, ready to talk about painting, sports cars, guns, politics or theology, all with equal ease. I leave the desk as it is.
The older girls' room is filled with the things of young women, or girls about to be young women. Make-up, pretty clothes, high heeled shoes are all draped around the room. The room is elegant: painted purple, long, flowing curtains, bookcases filled with excellent literature. The 12 year-old's writing desk is filled with pretty stationery and piles of letters from friends- the good old-fashioned kind of letter. Her glasses are resting on the latest story that she's working on. The 17 year-old's side of the room is neatly messy- I'm amazed at how she accomplishes this. She is so close to being an adult; I merely look at her things: the quilts she made, her cross stitching, not touching them. Wasn't it only last year she was sleeping in the crib in the next room?
Treasures, showered down on me daily. Treasures that I wish I could slip in my pocket and hold onto forever, but must store up in my heart instead. Treasures that I would not part with for all the gold, jewels or money in the world.
Behind the door of the little girls' room lies a room that is never messy; everything is in its place. I go in to check on them at night, and I find the 7 year-old sleeping, the bed linens folded neatly beneath her chin. A pile of clothes is at the end of the bed, on the floor. They are not the clothes she wore today, but clothes for tomorrow, an entire outfit, neatly folded. Her 1 year-old sister is in her crib, sleeping in a nest of blankets; not neatly covered, but surrounded. She is aware of me as I stroke her peach-fuzz hair and silky cheek. She coos and snuggles up to her special toy and blanket, and I pat her back and leave.
I always cautiously open the boys' room door, as it usually appears that a bomb has exploded. It's harder to find treasures in here; a little digging (literally) is necessary. But there, under a pile of stuff, I find a drawing of a dragon. It's breathtakingly beautiful and detailed. The 9 year-old drew it while bored, on a piece of scrap paper. To him, it was mere doodling, but to me, it is precious and I pick it up and put it somewhere safe. I can see the 4 year-old has been playing with Legos, and has left the spaceship he painstakingly made on his bed, next to his cars and on top of the make-shift Batman cape he made using his blanket. I look around the room and see the 15 year-old's paintings, lovingly mounted and framed. I see he is in the middle of a Chemistry lesson, and books and notes are strewn across his desk, mixed in with shell casings from his gun, sketches of cars, his Bible, and some laundry (not sure if it's clean). The desk is a picture of how his mind works; he dabbles in this and that, ready to talk about painting, sports cars, guns, politics or theology, all with equal ease. I leave the desk as it is.
The older girls' room is filled with the things of young women, or girls about to be young women. Make-up, pretty clothes, high heeled shoes are all draped around the room. The room is elegant: painted purple, long, flowing curtains, bookcases filled with excellent literature. The 12 year-old's writing desk is filled with pretty stationery and piles of letters from friends- the good old-fashioned kind of letter. Her glasses are resting on the latest story that she's working on. The 17 year-old's side of the room is neatly messy- I'm amazed at how she accomplishes this. She is so close to being an adult; I merely look at her things: the quilts she made, her cross stitching, not touching them. Wasn't it only last year she was sleeping in the crib in the next room?
Treasures, showered down on me daily. Treasures that I wish I could slip in my pocket and hold onto forever, but must store up in my heart instead. Treasures that I would not part with for all the gold, jewels or money in the world.
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