Dear Daughter, So The Bullies Came Today

Hey there, Big Sis.

I want you to know I see you trying to navigate fourth grade and I see how much emotional energy it requires. I see how you give to this family. I see how the storyline isn’t focused on you very often and how graciously you allow space for that. I see how you are an old soul trapped in a child’s body and suffer fools constantly. I see you.

I see the attentiveness you give your four younger siblings. (Thanks for slipping Little Sister’s library book into her backpack today, by the way. TK library day is not on my radar.) You’re always so observant of others to meet their needs. Perhaps that’s why it stings a little sharper when peers cannot reciprocate.

Do you know the way you notice details and anticipate needs is a gift?

Last night you shared the names they are calling you at school. Whispered breaths just beneath the teacher’s ear. Mocking comments in a passing line. Fellow fourth graders weaponizing “smart” and slinging as an insult to cut you down.

Even as I imagined slapping nine-year-olds, even as we gave statistics for why and when girls stop speaking up during class, even as we validated the raw hurt of your feelings, you offered such empathy and insight.

But I hope you know you never have to justify your mistreatment because another person is threatened by your intellect.

Let me tell you a secret, my love. They will come for you for being “too smart” and they will come for “not smart enough” and they will come for you for “wrong jeans” and they will come for having the “right jeans”. There is no escape. No matter what, the critics will come.

While this is not a new road of hurtful words to navigate, I am still heartbroken I do not get to fix it for you. I cannot shadow you. I cannot be there to intervene. We do our best to teach and tend to you at home then have to stand back and watch you enter your own arena.

Honestly, I’m not concerned how you respond. Ignore them. Confront them. Roll your classic eye roll. Punch them in the throat.

Whatever you do, just remember they do not have a say in your worth. Do not question your giftings. You have been hand-crafted and ingeniously created by the Designer of the Milky Way.

Smarts happens to be your gifting. Your brain is lightning. Your gifts are your superpower. Use them! Give them! Never be ashamed of them. That is the award. Not the hundred percent math tests or standing for school-wide writing accolades. Those are periphery.

The gift is living within the flow of who you are and not apologizing for it and not diminishing. In your young-heartedness, you already do this without holding back. Do not let their names and mean whispers teach you to withdraw. Do not shy away from being fully who you are. I watch you live and could weep with how you are teaching me to do the same.

Of course, you know our family does not care one lick if you are the smartest kid in class or if you come home with post-tests covered in red marks.

We care that you are the one sitting next to the new girl from Saudi Arabia being a friend in a new country.

We care that you follow through with your responsibilities to lead recess games with the kindergarteners even after your peers bail.

We care that you carry your sister’s lunch box every morning to lighten her load and listen to your brother’s stories under the oak tree every afternoon.

God, sweet girl you are strong. Do you know that? Shine on, my fiercely smart, fiercely kind girl. You, my preteen daughter, are fire and magic and all that is the best of us and you better believe I will hitch my wagon of hope for the future to you every dang time.

The Hope and The Promise of School Drop Off


There they go, little backpacks bobbing into the fast-moving energy of hundreds of other bobbing backpacks. I watch their second-grader and kindergartener heads weave through the wave of kids and my heart is overcome with pride and love and worry. Their business is to go. Mine is to walk away and let them.

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As teacher parents, of course we want them to learn academics and problem solving and the art of loving to learn. But mostly? I want them to learn who they are. To learn how God made them singularly and sufficiently. To learn about their classmates. To engage in their joys and heartbreaks in ways uniquely privileged to peer relationships in their kid world that we don’t get admittance to anymore as adults.

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My job is to speak a foundation of holy identity over my children, making conversations about their inherent worthiness and unique strengths so normal they internalize these guiding posts into their vernacular and their heart. My role is to walk away from those little backpacks believing the power of the Spirit is accessible to them as children; that their tiny ears and tiny souls packed up in their tiny bodies can hear God’s infinite Spirit repeat the whisper of identity into them – yes, even at public school – and they hear the guidance of God’s love draw them into relationship with others, intuit needs of others, and respond accordingly.

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Backpacks bobbing down colorful tiled halls, little bodies on their way to do big things. One last eye contact, one last wink, one last thumbs up. They’re not waiting to be a part of this Kingdom come to earth until they’re older; they are an active part of it now. Joy, pride, worry, what-ifs, anticipation, love, the whole swirl of feelings as I watch them walk away. The parenting tango of structure and freedom. Yes, their job is to go. My job is to let them.

Back To School Rally for Parents

School is starting up again and mamas everywhere are gulping air & watching their hearts march away inside embroidered “small” sized backpacks large enough to engulf our children head to calf. Notes drawn in lunch boxes and family mantras written in invisible ink on their souls. I have a friend who wrote UBU on the wrist of her kindergartener as a reminder to be your own wild and precious self when unsure of what to do in the midst of all these strangers. Beautiful.

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This is not a back to school post about our kids though. (That’s to come.)

This, is about us.

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I dare claim class mixers and first days and Open House nights are as scary and as needed for us parents as they are for our children. We’re showing up with our casseroles to parent potluck and our pencil wreaths to first day hoping no one notices our uncertainty in our coffee at the parent mingle. Okay, you’re showing up with casseroles and first day gift baskets, I’m lucky if I make it to the party, but the playing ground on the playground is  the same for us.

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Whether it’s a new school, new teacher, new grade, nothing new at all, we are required to enter bravely. To honor ourself by openly showing who we are. To honor others by allowing them to be themselves. Remembering that we are sacred and that kindness has always been the best kind of cool. 
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I don’t have this down yet. Mostly I write to remind myself; to cheer you and me on. We show our littles how to do it by doing it ourselves first. A bag full of hopes moving one foot at a time down those halls. You just be you. It’ll all shake out.

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