She was experiencing real world hurt for maybe the first time. Not a "I didn't get my way" or "She didn't want to share with me" kind of childlike hurt, but a hurt that changes her view of herself. A hurt that steals a little bit of her innocence, a little bit of her uninhibitedness, a little bit of her blind faith that she is perfectly made and perfectly loved.
I've been dreading this moment. The moment that my bubble bursts and is no longer big enough to protect her from a world that will scratch and dent and mar her into thinking that she is either "too" this or "not enough" that.
Did you know that at the age of five, 90 percent of the population measures "high creativity?" And that by the age of seven, that number drops to 10 percent?
What comes between 5 and 7?
6.
Exactly right where we we are. Oh my God.
With her growing body, comes growing maturity that opens her eyes to see that she is unique. However, our culture values the box and more importantly, being inside of it. The thief of comparison will come in the night and whisper to her that fitting in is better than standing out.
She will one day stop dancing furiously because she will become aware that someone is watching, and not with the loving gaze of her parents or her Creator, but with the critical gaze of judgement. Her arms will flail a little less wildly and her feet will start to match the beat, because that's what she's "supposed" to do.
Finley Eversole writes in The Politics of Creativity, "Our creativity is destroyed not through the use of outside force, but through criticism, innuendo, by the dirty devices of this world. So we are diminished, and we forget that we are more than we know. The child is aware of unlimited potential and this munificence is one of the joys of creativity."
When I think of the word creativity, it encompasses for me the idea of the truest form of ourselves. Me. You. At our very essence, living into the fullness of all that we are. Unafraid. Unashamed. Unmuted. Uncompared. I believe that we are all Created by the Creator, and since the Maker formed us all in His image, we too are creators, full of the richness of His creativity.
I look to God for answers, as he was in fact, the first Parent to the first children, Adam and Eve. The Bible tells me that he, too, was heart-broken as his children were deceived into believing that eating the fruit of the forbidden tree would make them more, when in fact it made them far less. Knowledge gained included self-consciousness, shame, and fear, which set off an avalanche of hiding, covering, and trembling. Less, less, and less. Not more.
God comes into the Garden and asks, "Where are you?" Even though nothing is outside of God's omnipotent gaze, and he knows exactly where they are, he still asks, "Where are you?" Where are your beautiful, innocent, creative, unself-conscious selves?
His next question though, is more heart-wrenching. "Who told you you were naked?"
That was my question this morning as I watched her tears fall and fought back my own, realizing that all my love isn't big enough to protect her. "Who told you you were naked?" Who told you you weren't smart? Or couldn't dance? Or looked funny? Or were too loud? Or too big? Or not enough? Who told you that?
Memories flooded back of my seventh grade year. Back to the year a girl in my class decided to bully me and then systematically turned every other seventh grade girl against me. I was ridiculed, barked at, laughed at, verbaly harassed, ostracized, handed my school picture in a million tiny pieces, and emotionally abused all that year. I was essentially told I was naked, and they were all laughing at me.
That 12 year old girl had never before known that she was anything other than fine, had never looked in the mirror for any reassurance that she fit the mold in size and shape, had never known how cruel people can be. That year, I went from being vibrant and courageous to doing everything that I could to blend in and not stand out in any way that might garner criticism.
While I've come a long way from that seventh grade girl, I have carried the baggage of that year into every road I have travelled, every encounter with every person I've ever spoken to. I carried it into my faith and into my marriage. I carried it into motherhood. It still holds me back in so many ways, and I am still working to combat the insecurities that grew out of that experience.
My heart might split clean open thinking about this happening to any of my children. And yet, I know that it will. And even yet, I know that their greatest wounds might one day be their greatest accomplishments, greatest stories of redemption, and greatest platform for the empowerment of others.
Ephesians 2:10 says, "For we are God's Masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things He planned for us long ago." I am His Masterpiece. You are His Masterpiece. We are His finest work that this world scratches and dents and shatters, and over and over again, God tenderly pieces our fallen fragments together, creating us into better versions of ourselves.
We are left with the question of how we go from being shattered to being a mosaic - beautiful in our brokenness and stunning in our wholeness. The answer I'm convinced lies in revelling in God's love.
Erika Morrison's words say it best:
...I'm convinced that our job as parents is not to protect our kids from human experience - the double-edged sword that will cut them wide open - but to give them the tools that will help them make a resurrected return, again and again, to the brilliant allure of the divine gaze, the tools to know that any stare other than the divine gaze is not the true story and that finding themselves in the gaze is the foundation of self-knowledge.So, I will unashamedly ask my children to look for God in their world and in themselves. I will walk with them through hurts and help them face their fears. I will teach them to hold His gaze, because in it lies freedom and wholeness and a 6 year old girl laughing at statistics and dancing furiously for the rest of her days.
