Today is my daughter's last day of first grade. I imagine that they're busy cleaning out cubbies, picking the final bits of laminated name tags off of their desks, and watching the final installment of The Land Before Time. I can't imagine how much energy must be firing in that classroom as twenty-some seven-year-olds ping-pong around one another just moments away from summer vacation.
God bless all teachers.
The year has gone quickly. Every morning that I've waited with my daughter at the bus stop, I've prayed for her. Daily, I ask for God's wisdom, favor, and protection over her life. I want her to enter school each day knowing how much she's loved. I want her to remember that she's never alone.
I've slipped notes into her lunch bag throughout the year. They've just been small notes with short messages, but when I went through her backpack -- a backpack jammed with all of the contents of her desk -- my eyes immediately were drawn to these purple slips of paper.
She's been keeping my notes.
Sometimes it's easy to think that our kids don't notice anything -- like when we ask them to shut the screen door behind them seventeen times in the span of two hours and they still leave it wide open when they exit the house. But kids notice a lot.
They certainly notice that we love them. This little stack of crumpled notes showed me that today.