The Reverse Draft

Baseball season is afoot, and with it comes the hat of coaching that David so willingly picks up for his boys.  This year, Collin's league involves an evaluation of around 100 boys who, in a day or two, will be drafted on to a team.

David is meticulous about stats and has ranked in an extensive spreadsheet his evaluation notes and a calibrated top 100 from the first draft pick down to the last, mostly according to observed technical skill or personal knowledge of the player.

Yep, the subject of drafting players hangs heavy in this house.

So tonight I was chatting with my girlie chatterbox because in middle school, many small details and incidents must be hashed and rehashed before the day might officially end. 

She told me, after months of waiting, she finally was tapped to be team captain in PE, which meant she got the power position of drafting her team for dodgeball.   

Well, I said, who did you pick?  The super sporty 8th grade boy?  The cool hip 7th grader who hardly gives you the time of day, but might start liking you if you picked her first?  The older, cute girl who you want to impress? Who then, pray tell?

Her reply: Mom, I decided to go in reverse for once.  You know, to pick the ones who always come last.

A reverse draft?

Apparently so. After ceding the first pick to the other captain, she called up as a coveted top pick the sweet girl adopted from a foreign orphanage who, because of a slight disability, could only move slowly from here to there.  Not exactly the most competitive selection for a winning lineup.

Oh boy Mom, she was so excited.

Then she called the girl with Asperger's, who shouts out in class, never quite brushes all of her hair, and acts- shall we say- different.

We all stand together and wait, crying inside to be chosen.

After that came a series of non-sporty, quiet girls with braces.  

Apparently God blessed this selection, because they fared pretty well against all the jocks and popular coolkats who ended up on the other squad.

So I'm ending this long day pondering how a child can be taught many subjects and facts, but is she also learning lessons of kindness and love?  Can a hyper-sensitive middle school mind see beyond the staged and sometimes-thorny outer shell of a fellow teen and right into the prism-like beauty of that person's heart? 

Such unexpected love for others must certainly originate with the One who first ran the reverse draft.  You know, the heavenly team captain who, century after century, picked the rejected (Jesus), the prostitute (Rahab), the elderly (Abraham and Sarah), the runt of the litter (King David) as the All-Stars for His team.

And although I am pleased with her numerous 7th grade accomplishments, I am convinced that her memorable draft will go down as one of the most meaningful successes of all.

Lucky 13

My firstborn turns 13 tomorrow.  Many thoughts have cycled through my mind in anticipation of this teenager entering our midst.  Allow me to simplify them:

 I am grateful to even know this person.

 Innocence still exists.

She consists of equal parts brilliance and joy. 

She is 100% Madeleine, 100% of the time.  

 To know her is to love her.  

Happy Lucky 13 to my world changer. 

Picking the Apple: How We Are Parenting Technology

I have been thinking long and hard about a famous story.  The story goes like this:

There was once an apple that changed the world, but not for the better.  That apple gave humans access to the knowledge of good and evil, and it destroyed our most valued relationships, with God and with each other.

 No---wait.  That's not the story I want to tell.  It goes more like this:

There was once an Apple that changed the world, but not for the better.  That Apple gave humans access to the knowledge of good and evil, and it destroyed our most valued relationships, with God and with each other.

Pretend like this cool pic has iPhones, Mini's, and iPads,
not innocent little nanos and shuffles.  I happen to love the music playing options.

I know this post is starting out a bit radical.  Maybe I am becoming a radical, although I've always viewed myself as a fairly normal, mainstream kind of gal.  The thing is--I find myself trying to forge a new path through the technology wilderness in an era when technology is a silent and often unacknowledged danger.  I'm no published expert on the speaker circuit, just a mere foot soldier in the battle.  But for the public record, I'd like to report the truth as I see it happening from the front lines of modern parenting.

We do own Apple products, in fact my 40th birthday gift was an iPad.  I've found that my daughter (7th grade) could care less about gaming or goofing around on touch screen technology and dislikes even reading on the Kindle.  She does do computer programming and a little game coding on the laptop, but this is a "creative" tool for her.  In other words, she uses technology not for entertainment, but as one would use a brush and paints:  to make something new out of nothing.  I'm all for that kind of activity.

My son (5th grade), however, loves to do anything that involves computer gaming.  He used to be hooked on the Wii, and when we got the iPad, he started small with apps like Scribble and Pop Math, which seemed innocent enough.  But all addictions start small, don't they?   Ask any addict of anything at all how it started, and I'll wager it was with something simple and seemingly safe.

With my son, he initially found himself mesmerized by the bright flashing features, the cool sounds, the constant motion on the screen.  Then he was sucked into gaming even deeper by his natural inclination to be loyal, even loyal to a digital team. The push notifications asking him to come back to play or telling him his troops were ready for battle (Clash of Clans) were like an alcoholic smelling the beer from outside the bar.  Despite his inner desire to restrain himself, he was constantly lured in for more (Romans 7:19).

I thought it was just a boy's fun.  That is, until I got my Visa bill one day and there were many, many charges of $9.99, $50, $100, that came to almost $3,000, all charged to my iTunes account that month.  I thought for sure my account had been hacked.  I only have bought a few songs here and there through the years, never anything more than a dollar or so a month.  Looking back, I was such a sucker to let a naive little boy on something as powerful as touch technology linked to a credit card account. 

The source was Baseball Superstars, which I thought it was a simple sports app, but that was a completely wrong assumption.  Doing more research after the fact, I discovered it really targets adult gamers and addictive gambler types.  As he got more advanced in the game, he was being asked to buy his team new uniforms on Baseball Superstars, give them massages, help them with special practices, all of which were bought with "points" that he thought were earned during the game but in reality were REAL LIVE MONEY being charged to my card.  Ouch and double ouch.

The slithering snake of deception, the one that preys on the young and vulnerable, reached right through that iPhone and bit me hard.

We warned him about passwords and such, gave him punishments of various sorts, and restricted the technology in his life (and he has never owned his own touch technology, just to be clear), but again and again we would see him fall into the same patterns of an addict: thinking about gaming the first thing when he woke up, sneaking my phone, hiding in the bathroom, lying to me.  If you know him, you would likely agree that these characteristics are not at all reflective of his usual personality.

To save him from himself, he is now off technology completely.  What else could we logically do?  There cannot be "a little on the weekend" or "just on the car trip."   He cannot take a single sip or he will fall off the wagon again.  It's a hard line to take as a parent when this very technology surrounds him, resides in his home, and permeates the lives of his friends.

Why so radical, you say?

Because touch technology will rob him of everything good in his life if we don't stand firm.

It will rob him of laughing in the kitchen with me, fully engaged and present in the conversation.  It will rob him of good academics and quiet times alone when he can think and reflect.  It will dissolve the lasting richness of in-person friendships and the satisfying small moments of wrestling around with his brother and talking football strategy with his dad.  It will rob him of nothing less than joy.

Kyle Strobel put it this way:

I think one of the most difficult aspects of being an American Christian is trusting that Jesus is right and that our culture is selling us something that ultimately isn’t a valid way to be joyful — and is actually the very thing that destroys joy. 

I love him too much to let him eat the Apple, only to be consumed whole by it in return.  Shockingly, apparently Steve Jobs agrees with me.  Did you know he didn't allow his own children to use the very iPad he created?  It's true--read it here.

And what of my son's friends and my daughter's friends, all of whom own touch technology?  That is for their parents to decide, but for now I am firm that my children will not go on overnights with children who have these products to use freely.  I will not have my son in a friend's basement, essentially unsupervised, with his buddy's iPad Mini where they will have access to things like pornography at a single tap.  While I absolutely cannot see my son initiating this kind of behavior, wouldn't it be easy for the other kids present to pull up?  I try to be very in touch with him, but how in the world can I possibly know and trust the private thought lives of his (also immature and vulnerable) friends?

Moreover, I find that I am in the thin sliver of minority when it comes to parenting technology and social media.  I ask other parents out of curiosity: "Why does such-and-such own this?  What are you thoughts on him/her having it?"  Or "Is this username trying to friend me on Instagram your son/daughter?"  One reply I hear frequently: "Well, they begged me to get them an account, so it's okay that they are under the age allowed on Instagram." Or I also am told, "Johnny bought it with his own allowance that he saved for a whole year, so how could I say no?"  Which leads me to my next question, one that I hardly ever ask aloud but put before myself on a regular basis: "Who is in God-given control of this relationship?  You or your child?"

I may sound alarmist, but my mama instinct is sounding off that there is untold danger of the self-inflicted kind ahead for my children's generation.  Although The Screwtape Letters was published in 1942, C.S. Lewis sounds downright contemporary in writing:

It does not matter how small the sins are provided that their cumulative effect is to edge the man away from the Light and out into the Nothing.  Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick.  Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one--the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.

Or, if I may be so bold as to add on to Master Lewis:

Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one--the gentle glowing screen, the easy to use apps, the smooth digital world without sudden jolts, without thinking minds, without limits on knowledge or images, without the Holy Spirit, without love....

So, how about you, fellow parents?  How do you manage this complicated issue in your home?

Food for thought: 
how would you describe someone who boldly holds out an Apple to us that he won't 
even allow in his own children's hands within his own home?

Move Over, Spider-Man

We're taking out annual end-of-June break from reality up in Charlottesville, Virginia, home of UVa, intellectuals, foodies, and the undulating Blue Ridge Mountains. Ahhhhh. A gal can breathe here (and gain a pound or two on locally sourced cuisine and craft beer.)

As it happens, we celebrate D's birthday each time we come, and this year he decided the festivities would include introducing his children to (yet another) sport: rock climbing.

I wasn't sure how it would go over. Rock climbing involves incredible stamina, strategy, fearlessness, and the willingness to cling by one's fingertips at high altitudes while covered in rivulets of sweat.

Wouldn't you know--my little people took right to it.  Yet again, I wonder if they were switched at birth.

Hmmmm, maybe I've been living with Spider-man's undercover progeny and I never once knew it. 

Don't tell.

How do they not fall? Because mom and dad have assumed the ultimate power position: the belayer.

(Belayer: the person maneuvering a system of ropes and pullies attached to a climber's harness that keeps them from from plunging down to injury or death.)

Oh my.

I've been on autopilot-mom mode for so long that when the instructor whipped through her belay directions for the double figure-eight knot I needed to tie that would mean the difference between life and death for my kids, I plumb froze up and stared blankly at her fast-moving mouth.  Wait up now.  How was I in the plans for this climb? Me tying fancy knots? It's like having a lifeguard who can't swim. Baaaad idea. 

I heard a small inner voice say "Brain! Put down your thoughts of craft beer and learn this, pronto!" 

The adrenaline rush combined with the thought of CNN's headline "Mother's Error Kills Children on Family Rock Climb" helped me push through and figure out the rules of belay.  

Folks, this is a public service announcement. Bone up on your knot skills ASAP.  You never know when they'll be required. 

Whoopsie.

Two hours later, everyone not only survived, but left so smelly, sweaty, and happy that they asked to come back another day. 

Next time, I'm packing my Wonder Woman outfit for this super hero work. 

A Little Tip for Summer Sanity: Just Add Water

Every time we have a child finish kindergarten, we go out and celebrate by signing them up for their first summer swim team.  This trend was started with our eldest, who was indeed a tender six years old when she first hit the blocks for the Area Tallahassee Aquatic Club.

She cried and cried the first day of practice.  I can hardly blame her.  There are bunches of kids who do swim team here, and a big competitive crowd swimming lap after lap can come off as quite intimidating to a little kid.  And yes, for you moms who are wondering, it was pretty darn excruciating for me to see her tearing up on deck in her brand new pink Speedo.  I really wanted to put her right back in the car, treat her to a Chick Fil A milkshake, and call it a day.

Alas, we persevered with our plan even though the tears didn't stop that day.  They came again and again and again until one day, she walked right across the big pool deck and hopped right in.

Collin joined her a few years later, then Anne Mason, and this year, Reid is officially in the mix.  Every single one of them cried the first day week of swim team. We have come to expect it as a rite of passage to Growing Up Roberts.

But why?  It's somewhat expensive and is a huge commitment of time, requiring three to four days a week of workouts and meets.  The most simple reason is that we wanted an easy way for them to learn all four strokes.  Swim team accomplishes that in one season of swimming, and those stroke skills will be with them well into adulthood, allowing swimming as a great alternative down the road when their joints get as touchy as mine.

Secondly, swim team develops core strength, a strength that translates into any sport they want to pursue.  Madeleine swam many summers before she started softball, and boy can she wallop the ball.  It all goes back to those repetitions of laps she put in, logging about a mile per workout by the last season she participated.

Moreover, who doesn't want to compete and win stuff?  My kids all do.  The first meet is scary, but then it's a great challenge to them to clock their personal best in whatever the event might be.

Reidy sports Collin's old royal blue jammers as he tries to get into the zone.

Reid's first-ever meet happened to be this week, in the evening after the conclusion of eight (hot) hours of baseball camp where, of all things, they practiced sliding all day.

His legs were toast by the time the meet rolled around.  This kiddo still loves his nap, so he really had to put the exhaustion at bay, which wasn't too hard once the fear set in and replaced all other emotions.

To say his older siblings could sympathize would be an understatement.  They stood right by him until his race was called.

He did amazing in the 25m freestyle.  Look at that eye and believe me when I say that this kid is focused as all get out when he wants to be.

And this shy little bunny didn't do to bad herself.  Not a tear to be shed this year--just fun times.

And, of course, my most competitive one lives and breathes for occasions like this.  In spite of the day spent sliding at baseball camp, he blasted the 50m free for the 10U boys, coming from behind off the wall to win and knock two seconds off his personal best.  All this awesomeness was fueled almost exclusively by McDonald's french fries.  Inexplicable, so I've stopped trying.

Where was Madeleine?  She's not entirely off the hook.  Instead of participating on the swim team, she attends practices and joins the group in the spare lane on the end to swim a workout of her own choosing.

Fuel up, Team Roberts, for swim team season is now upon us.  Or, as you like to say, "Eat my bubbles!"

So Many Kids: What Gives?

Today at my favorite Publix, I checked out almost needing two carts since the summer elves have taken up residence and eaten me out of house and home.  I had a light crew with me this morning: only the baby, the newly-six year old and the seven year old.  As so frequently happens, the cashier eyed us thoughtfully, taking in the baby gumming his black checkout pen, the other child flipping through my open wallet like a teenager, and the third shiftily looking back and forth at the Redbox while brushing soggy free-cookie crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand.

And like I have heard almost every single day over the past six or so years, he commented:  "Ma'am, you sure have your hands full."

Oh, how I have sought to come up with the perfect reply to this deft observation.  Not because I desire to be unkind, but because there is so much I would love share in earnest reply.  Today, I simply looked him in the eye and said: "Not really. There are two more at home," to which he could only glance at me with deflected pity and continue to scan.

This comment can be topped by the time I was in Walmart, eight months pregnant in a balloonish tent dress, pushing a 1 year old baby sucking two pacifiers at once, with several energetic preschoolers clinging to the metal sides of the cart.  Some well-meaning devout stranger put her hand on my arm at the checkout, leaned over and confidentially asked, "Aren't you so excited about the Pope coming to America next week?"  To which this Methodist mama with pregnancy-brain could only sputter: huh?

I admit in the general populace in modern America, it is unusual to see larger families. The diapers, the potty training, the forgotten putrid sippy cup under the passenger seat all the way through the mass feedings, chaotic sports schedules, wacky adolescent hormones and the jaw-dropping cost of college--it really is quite a lot to wrap your mind around.  I am always floored at my dental bill when I take all the kids at once.  I mean, really!  False teeth might cost less in the long run.

All hassles aside, having this many children comes down to one thing for me:  purpose.  At a certain point, the hubs and I came to realize that part of our purpose on Earth was connected to raising children in a Christian home, with a prayerful desire that they eventually go out into the world reflecting Christ in an authentic, respectful and intelligent manner.  So we went "all in" for this purpose, and now we sit here with five and absolutely no regrets.

The old adage is true: it's unlikely that someone will lie on their deathbed lamenting I had too many children! Woe is me!

And, to be honest, we like our kids. No need to overcomplicate things; there was no master plan.  We liked the first one so much that we had the second. We liked the second so much we had the third.  And so forth.

We want to be with them, we enjoy the process of raising them, we savor the chances for all of us to be together under one roof.  There simply is no shortage of entertainment with this many funny folks, nor any shortage of marvel at the people they are becoming.

I know without a doubt that God has great plans for their lives, and I am very interested in being a part of His plan with the days I have been given.

My fortieth birthday, three weeks before the birth of #5. 
Gifted with tooth fairy money, this chair is physical proof that there is a teeny tiny 
return on investment for costly dental care. 

So to the clerk in Publix, our ever-patient pediatrician (who I saw twice on squeeze-in appointments in the last 48 hours), the beleaguered Honda salesman, the transient lawn helpers, and anyone else wondering what faulty birth control must be going on with this many children under one roof, I say: there is nothing in life more satisfying than living out your calling.

This happens to be mine and I joyfully accept it, even as my two college diplomas gather dust in the closet, the noise decibels in our home exceed the legal limit, and the dog was hand-fed a bag of party-size Fritos by the toddler for breakfast.

Yes, despite the shock of uncovering a secret trove of live frogs in someone's pink bedroom only this morning, I would not say I have full hands.

Only a full heart.

Welcome to My Frontier

If I could swap spots with one person these days, it would be the Pioneer Woman, Ree Drummond.  With her sassy mom tops and awesome cowboy boots right down to her basset hounds and cowboy lifestyle, I feel certain I could work my deep Texas roots enough to fit in on her sprawling Oklahoma ranch. 

The moment I would be found out as a decoy would be when dinner was served up.  I just can't cook worth a flip. So I've engaged other parties to try and figger it out for me, namely my daughter.

Yes, as part of more prescribed summer fun, Madeleine is planning to cook her way through (mostly) Pioneer Woman recipes.   And sure enough, in the last five days, she's made blackberry cobbler, French bread pizzas, homemade pasta, banana bread, and the most heavenly au gratin potatoes.

In loyal support of her efforts, I have regretfully and with great difficulty set aside my tedious low carb diet to sample these delicacies.  

The cobbler was so delicious and devoured by everyone from dad to baby that the next day I decided to try my hand at the same recipe.  What I churned out had too few blueberries, too much lumpy dough, and burned a little on top.  Yech. 

Rolling out homemade pasta while sporting the apron she sewed a few years back?
Maybe someone should start her own blog.

This Pioneer-Woman-wanna-be might have come up with her best summer idea ever: a cooking understudy.  Next up: Croissant French Toast Bake.  

So much for low carb.....time to shop for a sassy swimsuit coverup instead?

Congratulations, Papa-Bear Style {Friday Photo}

Ahhh, this moment, this moment.  Inside I cried from the tenderness and laughed from the surprise all at the same time.  David shook all the kindergarten graduates' hands as they crossed the stage this week, but when his little boy came across, he held out his hand then instead swept Reid into a big bear hug high off the ground.

This father stays up until the very wee hours checking math homework, enthusiastically recites Henry V, Act IV, Scene iii (we few, we happy few, we band of brothers!) alongside his child at the dinner table, voluntarily pours over school budget details at his office desk, conjugates Latin derivatives, adeptly sorting out genitive, nominative, and dative cases, and takes great joy in surprise bear hugs to say congratulations.  Papa Bear hugs are in fact just a small outward sign of the steady stream of his fatherly love.  Thankful.

What to Say About Five Kids at Home 24/7?

~ ~ ~

Prologue

Once upon a time, quite some time ago, there lived a fair maiden by the name of Lydia. She had the potential to be pretty, one might say, with her long, brown curls and blue eyes, but years of hard labor had darkened her skin and destroyed her once beautiful hands.

As far back as she could recall, she had been enslaved to the king and queen of France, her home country, and worked countless hours tending to the horses. She did not mind the work at all: she had learned to love it, even if it had provided her with no money. However, the queen grew jealous of her beauty and sought to destroy her sunny disposition by whatever means possible.

So, Lydia was often given more work than the other servants and was not respected at all, and on this note begins this particular tale.

~ ~ ~

One brisk evening, enveloped in the French winter of 1127, Lydia was walking to the stables to groom the horses. She was deep in thought of the previous night, her seventeenth birthday, when she had received a Bible from her friends. She had always been a Christian, and was elated to read it. 

Suddenly, she stopped, and if anyone had been looking on at the scene, they would have been almost as horrified at her expression as she was at the sight before her. There was a new groomer tending to the horses, and she had no doubt in her head that this was the queen’s doing. She had loved this job: in her eyes, it was a small ray of sunshine, a tiny delight in her miserable world. 

Lydia ran. She dodged other servants and dashed up several flights of stairs until she stood in front of the large, wooden door that gave way to the throne room.  She knew that if she seemed upset, the queen would be even more proud of herself.  She realized she had to seem calm and composed, even if she was about to cry.  Lydia opened the door.

~ ~ ~

Wondering what happens next, hmmm??  Me, too!  This is not my writing, but a little noodling around by my eldest, written in about 20 minutes of spare time.  Needless to say, I am very much looking forward to reading more of her words and encouraging in the upcoming months the pleasure she takes in spinning a yarn.  

To summer, which starts tomorrow in our household, I say welcome.

Someone out there just read those words and - upon considering how life might be with five active kids, a large dog, and a perennially tired mom cooped up in the house for the summer - flinched slightly.  I understand how it might be possible to envision tedious misery, squabbling, dirty diapers, and persistently messy rooms.  And to a certain degree, all of those moments will happen, but I do have a plan, and I have learned from hard-fought experience that a plan is key.

What's on tap for summer 2014?  My 12-year old wants to work on writing, so she is starting The One Year Adventure Novel, a curriculum to take her through all the steps of storytelling, with the end product being a self-written novel. She is fired up to begin and has already decided on the setting and era.

We will also be doing Geometry with the oldest two, for which I am detecting a high degree of interest. I picked up the book last week and a certain someone discovered it, whisked it away, assembled a notebook, and completed the first lesson.  The two younger kids will be doing Saxon math with their big brother/sister tutoring team, the cheapest and perhaps best help I could possibly rustle up.

Science also made the list: the whole gang is doing Oceanography 101.  I purchased the text and we have plans for field trips (hey, this is Florida!) as we get deeper in the curriculum.  This topic has particularly captivated my third child, who is a tough nut when it comes to academics but is passionate about shells, water, and anything critter-related.

On the sports front, my fourth child passed his swim team test last week and is officially joining his siblings for swim workouts and meets three to four times a week.  This piece of the plan is a critical way to take the edge off of the abundant energy present in my household.  All four are also slated for triathlon activity, having been inspired by the tri the older kids completed this weekend.  I even found them sneaking a Sharpie and body-marking the baby and themselves, for which they were roundly scolded (although I admit I was extremely amused.)

In between all of this structured brain and body activity, there will be lots of cannonballs in the pool, sleeping in, badminton rounds in the front yard, lego constructions, sidewalk chalk, and pillow forts.  All the while, Kate Middleton will be wondering where in the Sam Hill all her quiet doggie-napping days have gone.

Summer 2014, bring on your happy, hot madness.  This mama is ready!

The Beautiful Mind

When I was growing up, there was a magic number in my brain that quantified who I was, which happened to be my IQ score.  I'm not sure how I came across it, but it stuck with me.  It became a defining factor in how I perceived myself. And in retrospect, I am angered that my mind was ever defined by a number.

Yet, history repeats itself as this week I am getting data back on my kids that seeks to define in a standardized way what is contained in their minds.  For instance, yesterday, Madeleine had to head over to the local public middle school to take a tedious three-hour algebra exam that is offered statewide with the intent of capturing whether the subject was sufficiently mastered to the satisfaction of the government powers that be. I have difficulty believing that this score will reflect the true depth of her conceptual abilities, but will rather be a superficial measurement skimming along a breadth of skills.

We also have started to receive from our school the Stanford Achievement Test scores, which are intended to help us as parents know that our children are progressing according to grade level and are an expected and appropriate endeavor for any academic institution.

So I'm looking at all these scores on the page and the National Grade Percentile Bands and Clusters and Performance Standard Categories and rows upon rows of digits, digits, digits and I want to ask this important question, of myself and the IQ number I can't shake (along with my own SAT), as well as to my children:

What test can quantify the mind, placed within us by God himself?  

Who can truly assign a number and a ranking to this complex masterpiece we have been given?  

Because every single day, I see in my children the Beautiful Mind unfolding in such a myriad of ways that I cannot fathom how anyone dares try to measure it's creativity and depth and adaptability.

When a child sits down and writes a lullaby on the piano for her baby brother, there is no number to capture the complexity of love and ability brought together in that moment.  Deciding one sunny afternoon to self-teach computer coding, how can you attach a figure to the inclination and boldness and receptiveness of a mind like that?

When that same child turns a phrase in an essay that makes me pause from the surprising stirring of emotions within me, or hides away in the sewing room busy recycling a dryer sheet and a deflated mylar balloon to stitch up a regal outfit for her doll, there is no standard of measurement that quantifies how creative, how unusual, how mutually earth-friendly and technically well made that effort really is.

So when I sat down to look over the SAT scores with Madeleine last night, on the heels of this state standardized algebra test, I told her point blank, without mincing words: school, grades, tests, assessments, these are all necessary parts of modern life, but will never be any measure of the Beautiful Mind God has given to her.  I pleaded with her not to rest in these numbers or tie her self-worth to any flat quantitative analysis as an accurate reflection of the three-dimensional kaleidoscope of brilliance within her.

The brilliance within all of us--His favored creation.

For he has made everything beautiful in its time. 
He has set eternity in the hearts of men, yet no one can fathom what
God has done from beginning to end.  Ecclesiastes 3:11