The Promise of What Lies Ahead

Books and papers have both a magical and medicinal nature for me. They can cause my thoughts to bend and stretch, and they provide a focused departure from the messiness of my everyday life.

I think it was in college that I decided the best books were those that required the utmost concentration. I clearly remember sitting in an English seminar, praying I would not be called on to summarize Dr. Hick’s critical theory reading assignment.  I wasn’t entirely sure I’d pinned down the thesis or even understood what I read. To my relief, the sharp senior who was called upon said he really had no idea what it meant, either. In that moment, I realized it is a joy to be perplexed and challenged, and ever since, I’ve sought more of that feeling.

I tend to let this “challenge me” mentality run away with me in daily life. The discomfort inherent in it leads to precise outcomes and stronger muscles, and I tend to find the inspiration in the messy middle. Maybe too often.

What I’ve been learning this past year and a half as a mother, though, is that learning opportunities don’t exist only in academia.

The best lessons have fallen into my lap, literally and simply, in the form of a little boy and his books.

The first time I found a big message in short sentences, I was nestled into the corner of an oversized chair. My little man was snuggled up with me, a bottle of milk secured between his miniature hands.

We began reading Nancy Tillman’s The Crown on Your Head, a story of a mother reveling in the awe of her child. She reminded her child that the big world was a place to discover and share talents, and to do so alongside her friends. The child was reminded of the crown on her head.

As I read, I whispered into Drake’s ear as God whispered into mine: there’s a crown on your head.  God could see me for who I was and who I would be someday. He sees me the same way I see my son: a masterpiece of energy and potential who can serve and love.

Maybe we all need a reminder of the crown on our heads. Tillman writes, “Ride on the big slide! And if you fall down, remember your glorious marvelous crown.” Nothing we can do can change this bright, identifying light of ours, so we must simply believe.

Tillman knows the value of repetition, too, because her themes of purpose and kindness echo from the pages of multiple books she’s written. In You’re here for a Reason, she writes how “a kindness, for instance, may triple for days. . .or set things in motion in different ways.” It’s a simple message we all need.

My favorite lines point out that life can be tricky and “you’ll skin your knees trying to figure it out.”

It’s true. As I read, I remembered my Huffy “White Heat” bike that I struggled to keep upright and which left me with some battle wounds I still bear today in the form of tiny white scars on my knees. Like those days of toppling off the bike into the grass, I need to stay on the path and master the “trick” to keep moving on two wheels. I was successful at it years ago, and I’ll be successful with what I’m pedaling toward now, too.

At two or thirty-two, the promise of what lies ahead professionally, personally, and spiritually is uplifting.

In The Wonderful Things You Will Be, Emily Winfeld Martin writes about a mother’s promise to her child that she’ll grow up to be something wonderful, whatever that may be. It’s a brush with a broad stroke.  It doesn’t specify what that “something” is, but it really doesn’t seem to matter. The focus is on being kind and finding a calling that’s also a passion. I think that’s really all God wants to give us, too. The author writes, “I know you’ll be kind and clever and bold. And the bigger your heart, the more it will hold.” It’s a rhyme and a reminder; an earworm with a mission.

Storytime is for my son and for me. It’s a time to stop, think, appreciate, and listen to the big ideas that have been clamoring for our attention.

When we look at our children, we want to encourage and shape them. We want them to be able to find a message in the noise, to sift it out.  We want them to hold fast to the special stories, whether they come from thick books with many pages or board books with a few thick pages. I imagine God wants the same for us.

If you don’t see Lacey Rose Dixon taking photos or writing, she’s thinking about it. So far, she’s called Minnesota, South Dakota, and Michigan home, and her passport gets itchy for stamps. Lacey loves scuba diving with her hubby and crawling after her little man. Follow her @laceyrosedixon on Twitter.