trading A’s for gold stars

In the crowded lecture hall, we sit in the dark and watch images.  Larger-than-life versions of famous paintings flash on the screen.  The professor’s voice drones.  Finally, the lights go up and everyone starts to pay attention.  Exam grades are about to be handed out.  Flimsy square blue books with red markings across our mistakes, a fat single letter circled large on the front cover.  We move forward a little in our seats, and I clutch the edge of my desk in anticipation.

A favorite essay - the model answer - will now be read to the class.  Our breath stills and we listen hard. 

I feel the familiar shiver of glory as I recognize my words.  An internal roar fills my ears from the adrenaline and the joy.  Me.  Me!!  I did it.  His words become audible as I look around the room at some very stiff competition, giving myself a silent smile and a mental high-five.  Coming out on top feels good, and I revel in the moment.  It is an ego ride down a cascading wave that will not last long, so, as he reads on, I rush to gather the short-lived mental endorphins that will feed my self-image and fuel me.

Yes, I was always good at school.  This is no real credit to me; I liked it and anything you like doing comes easier.  But I lived for the A.  I needed the A.  College is a sequence of listening, studying, and being tested.  The cycle is short; the feedback is scheduled.   Mid-terms, finals, start again.  I could hit the high and collect the self-satisfaction scattered across a smattering of courses, collectively bundle it together, and put a letter to my worth: A

~ ~ ~

So motherhood hit me hard.  There’s not a whole lot of feedback about the quality of job you are doing, so no matter how hard you try, you’d better not be looking for a good grade in the mommy department.  They don’t issue those. 

Or do they?

When my third child was born, I struggled with a bit of postpartum depression that was hard on my two and four year olds.  It was summer (she was born on 6-6-06, a blog for another day!).  We live in Florida and it was particularly hot.  I was exhausted: take-these-people-away-and-let-me-sleep kind of exhausted.  One day in mid-July, the kids were particularly animated.  They had been cooped up, trapped in the cycle of endless baby naps and feedings, and proceeded to tear apart the house.  Toys flung afar, TV blaring, there was nothing I could do to regain control.  I struggled hard and wept hard.  I’m afraid I verbalized my desperation to the older two, for they found me rocking myself on the couch, crying and chanting “I just can’t do this.  I just can’t do this. I just can’t do this.”  (I didn’t say this was a pretty post, but it gets better, I promise.)

The kids slowly backed away and disappeared.  It was very quiet in the house: too quiet.  The baby slept and I didn’t care what the older kids were doing.  I laid on the couch unable to move and hoped it didn’t involve electricity or breakables.  My golden-headed daughter, the eldest, came to me a short time later.  “Mama, get up.  Come with me.” I resisted, wanting to be still for a moment longer, as long as I could before Baby woke up. “You have to come.  PLEASE!”  

Sensing a problem, I rallied myself and allowed her to take my hand and guide me to my bedroom door.  “Close your eyes!” Okay, I thought, I can do that for certain.  I walked in and she shouted “Surprise, Mommy!” 

My room—I hardly recognized it.  She had taken an ottoman, covered it with a tablecloth, and laid out a tea party with her finest china.  Her stuffed animals had all been given seats on stacks of pillows.  They looked out over little plates of goldfish and Oreos.  But the most startling part:  there were gold stars everywhere.  Thick yellow crayon-colored stars.  Lopsided, happy stars, hand-drawn with colorful smiley faces.  Each placed carefully on white paper, cut out and taped up.  They adorned our four-poster bed and canopy, they hung from the walls and windows all around the room, lined up as far as her little hand could reach but no higher.  It was a yellow galaxy of child-like delight.

“It’s your Star Party!  Because I think you’re a star!”  She looked at me with hopeful eagerness and I dissolved.




"You are a great person"


How had a four-year-old sensed my low point and conjured up a way to make me smile?  Was I really worthy of the gold star?  Her tenderness and efforts were touching and timely.  I needed a star party and a chance to know I was doing an okay job.

 

School is a distant memory for me, but the school of life drones on and, every now and then, it’s nice to know you’re making the grade. And just for the record, I’d rather have a homemade gold star than an A any day. 

Thank you, Lord for your blessings and how you send others to care for us at just the right moment.  I pray my self-worth will come from You.  I am thankful that You speak through others, even a child, in such startling and original ways to impart Your encouragement.  I pray above all l that I will hear Your gracious words of approval in the final day:  “Well done, my good and faithful servant.”